The Art of Our Necessities
by dcfg21
Summary: After being Turned by a vampire, Harry descends into reckless and dangerous behavior. The Ministry and the Vampire Council devise a way to keep the former Savior on a leash, and his fangs to himself, by forcing him to take a Consort. Title comes from Shakespeare's "King Lear", Act 3, Scene 2. "The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious."
1. Chapter 1

The vampire's voice was smooth and as cold as glass. "This is the best we can do. His only other option is death."

Hermione Granger-Weasley's gasp caught in her throat as her husband shot up from his chair. "No! There's got to be another way. We can't force Harry into this," Ron growled.

Her hand tugged at the sleeve of his Auror jacket. "Sit down, Ron! It's upsetting, but we have to think clearly."

Silvestri's eyes met hers and the vampire nodded. "Listen to your wife, Auror Weasley. Let her cooler head prevail, and you may save your friend yet."

"Silvestri is right," Kingsley Shacklebolt replied from his seat across the table. "The Ministry and the Vampire Council have come to an agreement. Either Harry does this, or we turn him back over to the Council for punishment. As he is one of theirs, their rights trump ours." The Minister let out a heavy sigh. "And even if they didn't, I can't see Harry's fate turning out better with the Ministry."

"So, what? They kill him?" Ron snapped. "How is that justice?"

"I seem to remember not so long ago when these halls were roamed by Dementors, meting out justice with a Kiss for crimes committed. He must be stopped," Silverstri said with finality. "This is the only way to ensure his compliance."

Ron slumped down into his chair on a huffed breath. "He-he just needs some time, that's all. Just give him some more time to adjust-he'll come round," Ron's voice choked on a sob. "He will."

Silvestri glided forward on a silent whisper, his tall form exuding vampiric grace. "It's been six months. He has been given quarter after his Turning, as is customary for all those Turned against their will. His perpetrator was caught and brought to justice for the crime. We have made allowances in deference to both his situation and his stature among your world. The fact remains that he has taken that generosity and thrown it back in our collective faces. To allow him to continue this reckless and dangerous behavior puts both the Wizarding and vampire communities, not to mention the humans, at risk."

Hermione's hand slid over her husband's arm and squeezed. "Ron, he's hurt people. I know you don't think he means to do it, but he doesn't seem to care. That's not our Harry. He's changed, and we have to accept that. Did you see what he did this last time?" She shuddered. "He almost killed that man."

Her heart clenched as Ron stared back at her, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. "I just want my friend back."

"Then he takes a Consort and lives."

Ron's head swiveled to Silvestri, but he said nothing.

"Think about this rationally, Ron," Hermione pleaded. "If he takes a Consort, a willing one, and binds himself to them, he will no longer be able to feed off anyone else. He can't. He may not like it, but at least he'll be alive."

"He'll hate us for forcing him into it." Ron rubbed a tired hand over his face.

"He's already angry with us. Maybe in time he can forgive us. And if he can't, then we know we've tried to do everything we could. Anything after that is on Harry." She pursed her lips and folded her hands.

"And you can live with that, can you?" The bitter edge to his voice made her frown.

"Yes," she hissed. "I can. I can't make Harry's decisions for him, but I can damn well give him the best shot at making smart ones."

"It's a terrible thing," Shacklebolt supplied, "this business. And as fond as I am of Harry, and as much I appreciate the sacrifices he made for the Wizarding world, I have to think about the greater good here."

"Left unchecked, your friend will only grow bolder. He has shunned every attempt we have made to bring him into our fold and teach him ways to accept what he has become," Silvestri said. "How long before he does kill someone, or Turn another without approval? We have laws and treaties for a reason. To ensure that we can coexist peacefully. If he tramples that trust, and my people decide to rally against him, even I won't be able to stop the war that will ensue."

"Even so," Ron said, shaking his head sadly, "don't you have to find someone who's comparatively on Harry's level magically? In case you hadn't noticed, he's pretty damn powerful, what with defeating Dark Lords and all."

"Of course," Hermione said smoothly. "It says something that he retained his magical abilities after his Turning. I don't think that's happened in what," her glance flicked to Silvestri, "eight hundred years?"

His smile was brief. "Eight hundred and twelve."

Ron's shoulders drooped and he pitched forward to put his head in his hands. "I don't even want to know who you have in mind, do I?" he murmured.

Hermione reached out and brushed her hand over his hair. "No, you really don't." She stood up, gathering her parchment and quill, stuffing them into her shoulder bag. "I'll talk to Harry," she said, heading for the door.

Shacklebolt rose and followed her out. The Minister paused at the threshold. "It's the only way, Ron. I'm sorry."

Ron shoved back from the table and stared out the open door after his wife. The vampire's voice made him turn.

"I realize this is a difficult situation for all involved," Silvestri said with empathy. "However, should Potter make the wrong decision, you have to understand that it will give me no pleasure to sanction his demise."

"Right," Ron sniffed in disdain.

"It's dangerous water he's treading, your Savior. I hope your wife can convince him to catch this lifeline." Silvestri turned on his heel without a sound and headed to the door. He didn't look back as he finished, "It's the only one he's going to get."


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione opened the door to the cell and stepped inside, keeping her back to the door as she closed it. Despite her feelings to the contrary, Harry was still dangerous. And not sleeping as his back to the door would imply.

"I would ask you to sit, but you won't be here that long, will you, 'Mione?"

Harry's voice was rougher around the edges, jagged with thirst. She knew the Ministry had kept him here for days, and without the blood he needed to sustain him, was growing weaker and more testy by the hour.

She steeled herself and sat at the small table anyway, pulling out the parchment and a quill. "I had hoped you would sit and speak with me," she said lightly.

His chuckle erupted as he turned and sat up to face her. She paled at the sight. This was not her Harry. This Harry was darker, sharper, and the athletic build his body once held had transformed into something rangy and feral. The shaggy mop of dark hair was as unkempt as ever, and his face was drawn tight. He was suffering.

"I don't think there's much we have to say to one another anymore, is there?" he replied.

"Please, Harry," she pleaded. "I've come to discuss terms."

"Terms?" he said, his voice peaking with amused interest. "There was nothing mentioned of terms when the Ministry shoved me into Azkaban to starve to death."

"An arrangement has been reached." His gaze sharpened on her hands as she unrolled the parchment onto the table.

"I see."

His eyes traveled from her hands to her throat, where no doubt her pulse was fluttering madly. She could feel the pounding in her heart all the way to her toes. Harry's nostrils flared and he snorted.

"You smell like fear."

"Because I'm afraid for you."

"Because you're afraid _of_ me."

Her eyes widened and a shiver passed over her as he smiled, revealing the points of his fangs.

"I'm afraid of the things you've done, yes," she admitted. "But deep down, I'm not afraid of you."

His eyes focused on her neck again. "You should be." He swallowed hard, and for a second, something like regret flickered in his eyes. But a warning hunger took its place and he rasped, "You need to leave."

"Not before we discuss this," she said, gesturing to the parchment.

"And what is that?"

"Your pardon from death."

This time, he laughed. "Oh, the irony." Harry eased from the cot, and she noted the stiffness to his gait as he shuffled to sit down across from her. "Tell me, then, what does the Ministry have to offer the condemned?"

She pushed the scroll across to him and allowed him to read. His eyes scanned the parchment before he shoved it back without ceremony.

"No fucking way."

"It's the only way the Council and the Ministry will allow you to live. I'm here to offer it once. If I leave here without your signature, that's it. It's done." She watched his eyes narrow and his hands clench into fists. "You don't really want to die, do you, Harry?"

"I love how you keep throwing that around. _Death_," he sneered. "As if I'm not already intimately acquainted with the notion. And what the hell is a Consort?"

Traces of the old Hermione ventured forth as she tsked him. "Honestly, didn't we take the same classes at Hogwarts?" His eyes snapped up to her at the chiding comment. "A Consort means you are magically bound to this person, that you may only feed from them, and them alone. You will cohabitate, as the bond necessitates proximity. Basically, you'll be married in the eyes of the law, and the only one you can legally feed from is your Consort."

A dark eyebrow rose. "And if I decide to 'snack around'?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "The bond will assert itself on you. Painfully. Deadly."

Harry's lips tilted up in a tight grin. "So many ways to kill one man. Voldemort had nothing on the Ministry."

"Well, seeing as how he didn't kill you, I think you'd be willing to give this a go," she shot back. "You get to leave here, go back to Grimmauld, or wherever you choose, and neither the Ministry nor the Council can say two whits about it. All other charges against you will be dropped, there will be no parole, no Aurors checking up on you. You will be free to live with your Consort as you choose, provided you stay within the confines of magical and vampire law like every other citizen."

"And who is the other willing party in this farce? Or have you got them lined up out the door?" he snarled.

"Does it really matter?" she asked. "The who is incidental against your getting to walk out of here and live your life."

She jerked back as Harry's fist hit the table. "What life is this?" he hissed. "You can't imagine what this hell has been like for me!"

Hermione quieted and, against better judgment, leaned forward to reach across and lay a hand on his arm. When he didn't flinch from her touch, she pressed on. "You're right, I can't. But that doesn't mean I don't want to understand. Or that I don't want to help you."

He moved so fast, lightning quick, to grab her wrist and hold it tight. Harry's eyes stared her down, and she felt herself fall underneath the deep, green gaze. "I could take you now," he said softly, squeezing tighter. "I could drag you across this table before you could even think about reaching for your wand." Her breath stuttered against the coldness of his grip, and she was lost inside the endless sea of his gaze. "I could take you to the floor, press my fangs against your neck and bleed you dry before anyone could save you. I could kill you in the space of a heartbeat for no other reason than I am hungry and you are here." His head tilted to the side as his smile mocked her. "Is that the man you want to help?"

His grip loosened and she pulled her arm back with a jerk, rubbing the skin. "Yes, damn you." It felt like a lost cause, but her heart refused to relinquish the possibility. "I can accept what you are, because I knew the man you were. And that's enough for me."

Tense seconds hung in the air like weighted raindrops, waiting to fall, ready to either nourish life or snuff it out in a deluge. He snatched the quill and parchment, signing his name with a flourish. The resulting magic swirled around them before settling across Harry.

"There," he growled, his face a mask of scorn. "You've done your good deed. Now get out."


	3. Chapter 3

Draco turned his head toward the door of his cell, the sound of hushed arguing drawing his attention.

"He is completely unsuitable!" A male voice grumbled. "They'd kill each other inside a week, and all your efforts would be lost!"

"That's exactly my point, Kingsley!" A familiar female voice hissed in return. "The fact that Malfoy is completely unsuitable is what makes him perfect!" _Perfect? Perfect for what?_ "Who else knows how to rile him up that way? And that's what he needs-a challenge! Something to keep his interest." The low tones made it difficult to place her voice, but 'Kingsley' set off alarm bells in Draco's brain.

_What the hell was the Minister for Magic doing at Azkaban? And arguing about him, no less?_

Draco sat up and braced his hands on his knees against the sudden rolling of his stomach.

"I hope to Merlin you know what you're doing."

Draco could hear the self-satisfied smile in her response.

"Leave it to me."

The door opened and with a glimpse of soft, brown hair, Draco was transported. _Granger. _

She stepped inside with a brisk smile and shut the door behind her.

"Malfoy," she said lightly, with an incline to her head in greeting.

He blinked twice, and yes, she was still there, clutching a khaki-colored satchel over her shoulder. Her face was expectant, and he realized she was waiting for him to speak.

"Granger," he replied. At least his voice sounded steady. He cast a glance at the gold ring on her left hand. "Or is it 'Granger-Weasley' now?"

Her eyes fluttered to the hand at her shoulder, and she waved it carelessly as if she had forgotten its existence. "Oh, yes. Ron and I married last year."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

She shuffled over to the small table he was allowed in the cell and sat down, plunking the satchel on the floor. Her brown hair tumbled over a face that had grown into the picture of womanly beauty as she bent over and retrieved a rolled parchment and quill. She placed them on the table and made a silent motion with her hand for him to come and sit. When he didn't move, she let out a soft sigh and gestured again.

"If you please, Malfoy."

Unbidden, he found himself drifting to his feet and crossing the small room to sit as requested. Before he could open his mouth to speak, she unfurled the parchment and shoved it across the table. "I'll get straight to the point," she said, tapping her forefinger on the scroll. "I'm here about Harry."

"Potter?" The name rolled off his tongue with ease, even though it hadn't come out of his mouth for nigh on two years.

She tapped again. "Just read."

He reached for the parchment and scanned the text before his jaw dropped in surprise.

"Well, what do you think?"

Everything came rushing back at him at once: a rejected hand, scorn and derision, the horrible crunch of a broken nose, the pain of his chest being ripped open, the cold tile of the bathroom floor, a bloated and misshapen face that could belong to no one but Potter, despair and utter anguish, the scent of sweat and fear as Fiendfyre raged, and the feel of Potter beneath his arms as they flew through the air. He took a moment and sat back, staring at the words in front of his face. Slowly, as if reborn, the ingrained sneer Azkaban had worked so hard to beat out of him reappeared. He placed the parchment of the table and raised his eyes to Granger.

"There are three responses that spring to mind." Granger's eyes widened expectantly, tinged with something that looked like hope. He ticked off his forefinger. "First, no." His middle finger followed. "Second, when in the hell did Harry Potter become a vampire?" Ring finger. "And third, fuck, no."

Granger's eyes narrowed. "If you will actually give this some thought, you'll understand how this can be beneficial to you." He had to applaud her attempt to appeal to his Slytherin side.

Draco reached for the parchment again and brought it to his face, squinting his eyes and making a show of reading it more closely. He waited a breath and slammed it on the table. To her credit, Granger didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "The summation I'm getting here is that you're offering me a pardon if I will willingly consent to become Potter's chew toy. Is that correct?"

Granger's jaw clenched. "You're overstating, and rather crudely, I might add, but yes."

"The answer is still no, with a heftier helping of 'no fucking way'."

"Curse at me all you like, Malfoy," she replied coolly, "but if you ever stood a chance at getting out of here, this is your ticket."

The mirth on his face vanished, and anger slipped tight across his cheeks. "I have served two years. I have five more to go."

"You could leave here _today_."

"And what, bind myself to a man I hate and spend what's left of my natural life as what – the feed-trough for the Golden Boy of Gryffindor?" Draco snorted. "Pull the other one Granger, it's got bells on."

Her face relaxed, and her sudden aura of calm unnerved him. "You don't hate him."

"Like hell I don't."

"You didn't identify him to Voldemort when you could have. Harry told me. You had your chance and didn't take it."

The sneer was growing more and more comfortable on his face. "Well, aren't you Little Miss Informed?"

"He testified for you and your mother," she pressed.

His teeth clamped together so hard his jaw ached under the pressure, causing stars to appear behind his eyes. "Do not mention my mother. And as for Saint Potter, I apologize for not sending a formal thank-you for his assistance in helping me acquire my current lodgings, but you see, they took my stationary when they took my wand, my name, and my dignity."

"Malfoy-" she began.

"Look at me!" he cried, throwing his arms wide. "This is what I have become. Nothing." He plucked at the dingy gray shift he wore. "A filthy nothing. You must all be rolling with how the tables have turned. And now you want my help?" He rubbed a grimy hand over his face. "Look at me," he said again, this time hating the pleading quality his voice adopted. "You want me to help the Savior, and I'm not even in a position to help myself."

Granger's eyes turned soft, and he looked away, afraid to see her pity reflected there. When she spoke, it was calm and empathetic, and his head turned on its own volition. No pity, just sadness. "You can help each other. Please, Malfoy. You're the only one who can help him."

Draco closed his eyes and willed his frantic heart to slow. The moment he saw the word 'consort' on the parchment, he knew exactly what was being offered. Bound to Potter. Forced to allow him to feed. Tied irrevocably to another master by circumstances beyond his control. Yet, freedom crept over the horizon, blazing as it came into view. But to what end? And how great was the price? How far had Potter fallen for this, for the Savior's saving grace to be himself?

"How did it happen? Potter?" he muttered.

"Six months ago. He and Ron went on a raid to Yorkshire. Whisperings of a Death Eater enclave or some such nonsense. It turned out to be a smuggling ring, and they were separated. Harry was captured, but fought his way out. They had taken his Portkey, and before he was coherent enough to Apparate, he was taken down by a rogue vampire. Completely unrelated to the case. Wrong place, wrong time. For once, luck wasn't with him." She told the story with perfunctory distance, as if she'd had to repeat it frequently, but to Draco's ears, she couldn't disguise the heartache it left behind.

"And why is the Ministry forcing him to take a Consort? I didn't think they concerned themselves much with vampires outside of treaty negotiations."

She shifted in her seat, and opened her mouth carefully, as if to measure her words. "Harry has had trouble…adjusting."

Suddenly, it clicked into place.

"He's gone mental, you mean?" Draco sat up and pressed the tip of his forefinger to the table. "That's it, isn't it? Potter's gone off his nut and you want me to keep him on a leash." He snarled, the deep growl echoing through the room. "And this is the man you want me bind myself to? He's dangerous, isn't he?"

Her head dropped, and for a second he thought she might actually be crying, but when her eyes lifted, she had managed to restrain them. Tiny sparkles welled in her brown eyes, and the effort she exuded to hold them back was tremendous. Granger's lip quivered. "He's-Malfoy, he's hurt people. Feeding without consent, Turning people against their will. It's getting worse. Two days ago, he almost killed a man in Chelsea. Practically ripped his throat out. The Vampire Council was on the verge of declaring him rogue, and he was wanted by the Ministry." Her hands came together and slid across the table as if to reach for him. "If he doesn't take a Consort, they'll execute him."

Draco's heart stuttered in his chest. Potter, dead. It was unthinkable. "If he's that dangerous, then maybe-"

"No!" she barked. "No. He's changed, yes, but he's still Harry. Somewhere. He's lost himself, and he can't find a way to reconcile the man he was with the creature he's become. But if you-"

"If I offer him a sustainable and constant food source, you're hoping he'll come around?"

Relief shone through the tears. "Yes," she nodded. "Exactly."

"And what if he decides to chuck it all and take me out with him? Hmm? What then?"

"I didn't say there wasn't risk involved," she replied. "But I thought being able to walk out of here free would be enough to encourage you." She spread her hands. "And that's the truth. If you bind yourself to Harry and become his Consort, all charges against you will be dropped, your sentence overturned, and what's left of your vaults will be returned to you. Now, the Manor was seized quite some time ago, and along with the rest of the Malfoy holdings, still remains property of the Ministry, but Harry has Grimmauld and his own vaults. Between the two of you, you've got enough to do whatever you want for the rest of your lives."

It sounded too good to be true, but he knew that if there was a catch, Granger was too good at heart to cover it up. Even for Harry's sake.

"I have five years left on my sentence. After that I'm free and clear. Why should I bargain with that and gamble that Potter won't eat me in my sleep?"

She looked at him plainly. "True. But you and I both know that even when your sentence is up, the Ministry will do whatever it can to keep you here. Indefinitely. This," her finger traced the edge of the parchment, "is ironclad. You do this, and they can't touch you anymore than they already have. They can't take anything else away from you."

He thought of his mother and his father, and briefly wondered if the flowerbed around their tomb was being kept. "I don't have anything else to take."

Granger's smile was smooth, and for a second, she looked too much like Pansy Parkinson for comfort. "Then you don't have anything to lose, either. You may still be prideful and arrogant, Malfoy, but the one thing you're not is stupid."

He stared at her a moment before closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath. This was it. His moment to grasp at freedom. Even if the price ended up being too great, at least he could say he had tasted it one more time. He snatched up the quill and signed his name at the bottom, feeling the magic twirl around him as he finished. It was done. He was Potter's.

Draco scooted his chair back and came around to stand beside her. "I suppose I'll be seeing a lot more of you if I'm living with Potter."

"If he decides he wants to see us." The hurt was evident, not just in her words, but the slight pinch to her face. She rose to her feet gracefully and smiled up at him. "It's been a while, and I don't think we all quite know each other anymore. Perhaps we should reacquaint ourselves?" Granger offered her hand. "I don't think we've been introduced. Hermione Granger-Weasley, brightest witch of her age."

Draco felt himself smile before he could contain it. He took her hand and shook it warmly. "Draco Malfoy, chew toy to one Harry Potter." And strangely enough, it didn't sound so bad. Then again, he had yet to see how much Potter had actually changed.


	4. Chapter 4

The guard outside Potter's cell gave him a derisive once over before stepping aside. Draco ignored the slight and went in without hesitation.

"Potter."

Potter lay on his cot, cool as you please, arms tucked behind his head with his feet crossed at the ankles. He raised his head and let his eyes trail down Draco's body, over the faded blue t-shirt and jeans. Granger had been adamant he have something other than prison attire when he went to Potter. The thought that these clothes probably draped themselves on Ron Weasley at one point was horrifying, but he had to admit the muggle wear was indeed comfortable, and a far sight better than the ratty grey shift he'd lived in for the past two years.

Potter's perusal continued for another second before he let his head fall back and swore softly.

"Fucking Hermione."

Draco shut the door and walked further into the room, but stopped short when Potter's head jerked up again at the noise.

"She's very persuasive, your Granger."

"It's Granger-Weasley, now. She'd have Kneazles if she heard you."

"On the contrary, the conversation she and I enjoyed was littered with 'Grangers' and 'Malfoys'." Draco shrugged. "It was all very nostalgic. Until she dropped this in my lap."

"I should have known," Potter said breathlessly.

"Well, now you do," Draco replied, stepping closer, getting his first good look at the Savior in two years. Potter had changed, that much was true, but there were still traces of the Boy-Who-Lived, and it made him understand why Granger was so adamant that the old Potter still existed. He was still there, in a certain slant of light, from the mop of unruly black hair to the square of his jaw (which Draco had to admit he'd grown into), down to the faint flicker of innocence lost in the sparkle of his green eyes. But it was the overpowering sense of danger and the intriguing aura of darkness that made those old vestiges so disarming. Draco's heart slammed in his chest with the knowledge that this Potter knew how to make those familiar traits work to his seductive advantage. No wonder he'd been biting half of Wizarding Britain. They were probably queuing for him in droves with a look like that. And now that look belonged to Draco.

Potter sat up and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, continuing his scrutiny. Draco's spine stiffened as Potter stood, gliding toward him on silent feet, that frank appraisal taking him in from all sides as Potter circled him like a bird of prey. He felt a pointed gaze at the back of his neck, but remained still, even as Potter's head got closer, tickling the back of his neck with breath that was surely far too warm for the undead. As he came around front, their eyes locked and Draco swallowed hard, not missing the way Potter's eyes snapped to the movement and remained there, mesmerized by the unconscious gesture.

"Going to look in my mouth next? Check my teeth?" Draco spat, giving voice to his irritation. "I can assure you Azkaban has kept me at least healthy enough to sustain you."

"You're thinner than I remember."

"Three barely squares has helped me maintain my girlish figure, Potter. Now, if you would be so good as to bite me, we can get on with this farce and get the hell out here." Draco raised his left arm, but dropped it as the Dark Mark came into Potter's view. He had made such a habit of ignoring it on his own skin that his brain simply didn't see it anymore, but Potter's eyes darkened at its appearance. "Apologies," he sniffed, raising his right arm. "Is this less uncomfortable?"

Potter laughed softly and shook his head. "I've seen more Dark Marks than I care to admit on men who had no compunction about flaunting them. Yours is still the only thing it ever was." Green eyes danced with interest. "A wicked tattoo."

Draco's left arm pressed close into his side, as if the appendage had a mind of its own. "I wish I could say I felt the same." He turned his wrist upward, presenting it to Potter's gaze.

This time it was Potter that swallowed hard as his eyes trailed over the map of veins that lay underneath Draco's ghostly-white skin, as if he could track the course of his blood simply by watching. Potter's eyelashes fluttered, and then he turned abruptly and returned to the cot, staring out at Draco with a blank mask.

"What is it?" Draco frowned. "I realize that Granger duped you into this by getting you to sign first, and I should probably feel sorry for you at that, but I don't." When Potter didn't react, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and continued, injecting as much scorn into his tone as he could muster. "So here we are, and I can't help that I'm the last person you want to take a chunk out of, but believe me, you weren't my first choice either. And if the thought of my blood is so repellent to you, you should take a look around and reevaluate your options, Potter, because frankly, I think this about the best that either of us is going –" Draco's rant cut off as Potter's fingers began to move, tapping out a silent rhythm on his thigh.

His eyes held Draco's, and Draco felt a tiny tickle at the back of his mind that made him want to lean forward and see what other wonders he could find at the bottom of Potter's emerald gaze. The tapping hand kept its rhythm as it slid up Potter's muscled thigh, up over his stomach, dragging the edge of his dirty t-shirt high enough to reveal tanned skin over taut planes. The shirt dropped as the hand went higher, finally coming to rest over Potter's heart, two fingers still tapping out a steady thump-thump, even as his eyes held Draco fast. There was no emotion on Potter's face that he could discern, just a blankness that pulled him and refused to let go.

"What?" Draco huffed.

The void on Potter's face shifted, morphing into several emotions too quick for Draco to reconcile, before settling to a strange, eerie calm. The fingers continued their tapping.

"What are you doing? What is that?"

"That's your heartbeat."

Draco snorted. "Bollocks. That's _your_ heartbeat, idiot."

Potter moved like a flash, and Draco gasped as he appeared right in front of him. He grabbed Draco's left hand and placed it on his chest. "You're the idiot," he growled. "Mine doesn't beat anymore. But I can feel yours inside me."

Potter spoke the last sentence with a sense of conflicted wonder, and his fingers trailed across the back of Draco's hand, finally covering it with his palm. He was cool to the touch, not the glacial temperature Draco had been expecting, and oddly, Potter was growing warmer by the second. Sure enough, when he pressed down, there was nothing. He felt faintly sick at the thought of Potter's empty chest and what lay beneath it now. But Potter's fingers started drumming again, and Draco closed his eyes to concentrate on his own heartbeat.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Draco's eyes slid shut as the echo pounded softly in his ears, moving through his body to vibrate at a steady rhythm. Potter's chest grew warmer and warmer beneath his hand, and he could feel the reverberations spread out from underneath his fingers and into Potter, as if he were willing Potter's dead heart to beat by touch alone. Magic tingled along the edges of his skin, sparking tiny fires that rippled out, and he gasped at the unexpected, yet arousing sensation. Potter tensed, and Draco's eyes flew open.

"Why can I feel this?" Potter rasped, pain and confusion written across his brow. "I don't want to feel this. I don't want to feel you."

Draco recoiled as if slapped, jerking his hand from Potter. The admission stung, far more than he wanted to admit to himself, but he took a deep breath and forced down the unwanted emotion. He laid cool eyes on Potter and said smoothly, "It's the bond, that's all. You'll just have to get used to it. We both will. Now," he went on, raising his right arm again, "first bite validates the contract. Do it and we can go."

Potter's face twisted and his shoulders went rigid. "No! I can't! I don't want to do this!"

Draco's hands shot up to grab Potter's shirt and shove him back against the wall. "Listen to me," he snarled. "I don't give a bloody fuck what you want. This is not just about you. I have bound myself to you, and I don't care if you don't want it or don't like it, but you will fucking take it." Potter went still underneath him, and Draco knew it was only a matter of time before Potter shoved him off, or threw him across the room. But his pride and his fear were bubbling up from his toes, and fuck if he was going to let Potter and his whiny petulance stand between him and freedom. "You can brood and bitch all you want, I don't give a shit. But you will do this so I can get out of here." He brought his right arm up and shoved his wrist into Potter's face, forcing it into his mouth. "For fuck's sake, Potter, _bite me!_"

There was a brief pause as they locked eyes, Draco's wrist stuffed into Potter's mouth, and for a second, he thought Potter was going to kill him. The danger in Potter's eyes never dissipated, even as his fangs sunk deep into Draco's flesh.


	5. Chapter 5

Pain danced behind his field of vision and his eyes closed against the sharpness of Potter's fangs biting down. All at once, Potter came _alive_ as he whirled them around to reverse their positions, pressing Draco against the cold concrete of the cell wall. Magic buzzed around them as Potter drank, seeping into his skin, binding them together to lend permanence to the contract. There was no going back now, not ever. He was Potter's in every sense of the word, and judging by the way Potter writhed on top of him, the vampire was determined to brand credence into the argument.

Potter's hand clamped down over his wrist, while the other scrabbled for purchase underneath his t-shirt, skittering across his skin to finally rest at the hollow of his waist, fingers digging in with bruising ferocity. The hold sought to keep him in place, and Draco wanted to laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of the gesture, because his body had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. The pull of Potter's lips on his wrist was drugging as he drank, and Draco moaned as he floated somewhere between a dizzying vortex of pleasure and pain.

Heat blossomed between them, and Draco's hand slid up Potter's back to still him, but it was no use as Potter ground into him. The vampire groaned, a full-body shudder that forced Draco's eyes open at the needy sound, and he watched as his blood spilled out of Potter's mouth, running in crimson rivers down his forearm. Potter pulled back and swiped his tongue across the flat of his wrist, chasing the red trails with a darkened tongue.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the sight should have sickened him and turned him cold, but his body didn't seem to respond to that message. Instead, his hips met Potter's, and the stiff arousal he found there kick-started his body into overdrive. Potter dropped Draco's arm and his forehead fell onto Draco's chest, his hands moving to clutch his hips while Potter panted against him. Arousal, unyielding and single-minded, erupted as Potter's lower half rutted.

It was rough and fierce, and Potter was on fire, heat pouring off him in waves with an intensity unthinkable even for a mortal body. Draco's cock throbbed against the constraints of Weasley's jeans, and if that thought couldn't squelch the need his body craved, well, he was damned anyway.

Potter thrust against him, no doubt fueled by Draco's blood, and that made it all the hotter. He was responsible for this. Potter would never, ever come undone like this with anyone else for the rest of his life. The thought was heady and intoxicating, and even though he belonged to Potter as his Consort, to anyone on the outside looking in, it would appear that it was Potter who was lost, Potter who was bound. The power in that realization thrummed along his skin in time to Potter's open-mouthed panting against his chest, and Draco held him tight as they rocked themselves to a grunted completion.

Potter's head shot up just before he came, capturing Draco's lips in a surprising kiss. The metallic tang of blood lingered on Potter's full lips as he ravaged Draco's mouth, and Draco found himself opening for Potter's tongue without a thought. Potter shuddered against him, his voice rasping out in the moist, heated air between them.

_"Mine." _

Draco gasped in astonishment as his climax rocketed through him, spurred on by Potter's sudden imperative, as if the word alone could make him come on command.

He grunted as Potter slumped against him, still pressing hard against his body. He contemplated shoving the vampire off, but frankly, the post-orgasm buzz wouldn't allow him to do much of anything except stand there and pant. Harry's face turned from his lips and wedged at his neck, his breath still hot against his skin. The little voice in the back of mind told him he'd be a fool to move Potter now. Instead, his left arm came up and touched lightly at the back of Harry's neck. Harry tensed, but relaxed after a second, and his hand clenched around Draco's hip. He winced at the press of fingers. No doubt Potter had left his mark.

"Merlin," Harry rasped. "You think it will always be like this?"

Draco felt Harry's lips graze against the sensitive spot just below his ear, his ragged speech ghosting over Draco's flesh. The action sent tiny aftershocks spreading through him and Draco groaned, closing his eyes to let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. His lips curled into a sated smile.

"Probably. We've never done anything by halves, have we?"

Harry grunted and mouthed against the newly-exposed patch of skin, alternating the rub of his lips with the scrape of his fangs. "I swear, Malfoy, you'll be the death of me."

Draco's hand curled into the soft strands of hair at Harry's nape, chuckling. "No offense, Potter, but I think someone's beat me to it." Harry's laugh rumbled against his skin, and damn if it didn't feel good.

"Fucker."

A discreet cough sounded from the doorway, and Potter shifted, turning his back to the door, as if to shield Draco from the intruding presence. The sensation was strangely protective, and yet oddly pleasing, and the thought resonated through his bones that Potter would spend the rest of his life standing sentry between Draco and the outside world. As if it was right where he belonged. Potter's face lifted, and as their gazes crossed, the look of irritated puzzlement etched across Potter's furrowed brow told him the same thought had occurred to the vampire.

Potter turned, keeping his body mostly in front of Draco. "Hermione."

Draco peeked out over Potter's shoulder to see a smiling Granger, a set of parchments in her hand. Weasley barreled in the door after her, followed by Shacklebolt and a tall, imposing man with a stony face that could have given Severus Snape a run for his money.

"Not the ferret!" Ron cried. "Anyone but the ferret! Blimey, 'Mione, couldn't you get anyone else?"

Potter's hand curled back to rest just below Draco's hip, and he growled low in his throat.

"I am here, you know, Weasley. And I don't think Potter likes your tone," Draco said lightly.

Granger dutifully ignored the outburst of her husband, waving her parchment instead. "I see you've validated the contract with the First Bite. That's popped off and been filed with the Ministry. I have a copy of your release paperwork here, it's been recorded and I'll owl this to you at Grimmauld, Harry."

"Fine," Potter replied through clenched teeth. "We can leave?"

She nodded.

Draco noted that he only had eyes for Granger, choosing to ignore Weasley's sputtering and the two other men in the room. The tall man was silent and foreboding, and Draco knew he was looking at a member of the vampire Council, and someone with whom Harry had no intention of acknowledging.

Suddenly, he was being forcefully pulled alongside Potter, held tight against him. Potter's gaze was searching, and when he ground out a terse, "Thank you", Draco wasn't sure if he was addressing Granger or himself.

Hermione's eyes went wide and her hands shot out in protest as she huffed, "Harry! You can't Apparate from here! No one Apparates from Azkaban, you know that!"

Draco watched as Potter's eyes shifted, turning two notches above murderous as they fixed on Granger. The smile that crossed his lips was sinister as he replied, "Watch me."

They were gone with a _pop_ a second later.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco bent over and placed a hand over his stomach, groaning, causing Potter to take a step back and look him over.

"Alright there, Malfoy?"

"A touch queasy. I haven't Apparated in quite some time. Wasn't expecting that," he confessed on a gasp, taking a deep, cleansing breath. He straightened and took a good look around. "Is this Grimmauld Place? I haven't been here in ages."

"I suppose it's your home now, as well," Potter replied.

"A sight better than Azkaban, at any rate."

Potter shrugged. "I've slept in worse."

It seemed relatively clean, although the first thing Draco noticed was the darkness. The windows were covered in heavy, black curtains that swallowed every ray of light that might even be thinking about coming through. Light came in a warm glow from the presence of lamps scattered about the room, bathing the space in shades of amber and yellow.

"All the curtains are spelled closed," Potter offered, noting his glance around the room. "For a reason," he added. "And if you tamper with them, you'll get a nasty shock." He smirked. "If you're lucky."

"Don't worry, Potter, I won't be trying off you with sunlight." Draco gestured with a finger between them. "This is supposed to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I have no plans to kill you now or in the near future."

"Just stay away from the curtains, Malfoy." Potter snapped his fingers. "Kreacher?"

A wizened, grumpy-looking house elf popped in. "Master Harry is home?" Kreacher let out a gasp as he spied Draco, and then bent in a formal bow. "Greetings to Master Draco Malfoy. Kreacher is being pleased to serve the line of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in their ancestral home."

Potter frowned at the obvious dismissal from the house-elf. "Make up the room across from mine for Draco. It's his now."

_Draco, is it? Well, that was unexpected._

"Master Draco is staying?" Kreacher asked. He paused for a moment, as if feeling something in the air. His eyes widened and he began nodding frantically. "Yes, yes, right away, Master Harry. Kreacher will make things perfect for Master Harry's Consort." He disappeared with another pop.

"That cat's out of the bag," Potter murmured.

"What? Is that one of your Muggle expressions?"

Potter rolled his eyes. "Yes. It means-" he paused, then sighed. "I'll get you a phrasebook or something."

"You could just say what you mean."

Potter opened his mouth to retort, but closed it, running a hand over his face. "Sure. Whatever. When Kreacher's done, your room is up the stairs, last door on the left. Mine is across the hall, but there's a shared ensuite bath between us. Feel free to take a shower. There's clean towels in the bathroom cupboard, and there's probably something suitable for sleeping in your dresser." He started up the stairs. "We'll sort out everything tomorrow." Potter stumbled and grabbed for the rail. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Potter, wait!" he called. Potter turned, his face looking twice as wan as before.

"What?"

Draco frowned as he took in Potter's bedraggled state, noting how much energy his bravado at Azkaban had taken out of him. Potter must have been worse off than he thought, and the first bite not nearly enough to take the edge off Potter's hunger. He looked drained, and tired, yet he still managed to hold himself straight.

"You need to eat. The first bite wasn't enough." Draco hoped the invitation in his words was clear, because somehow the thought of asking Potter to bite him wasn't palatable at all. That would imply a measure of want on Draco's part, and that was something he didn't want to think about. Not ever. No, Potter was as stubborn as the day was long, and the idiotic Gryffindor would need to be prodded. Prodded like a surly old mule. Possibly with some kicking. Potter's fangs and the deadly expression he had given Granger popped into his mind. But not tonight.

Potter stiffened, and the lines on his face drew up in taut denial. "I'm fine. Go to bed."

Draco snorted and crossed his arms. "You're a shit liar."

He turned to head back up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "One visit with her, and now you sound like Hermione. God help me."

If Potter wanted to deprive himself, who was he to argue? He certainly wasn't going to bed, and he most definitely wasn't going to push the issue, lest he find himself on the angry end of those sharp fangs.

"Fine!" Draco shouted after him. "But I swear to Merlin if I wake up and find you gnawing on me, I will hex your bollocks into next week!"

"You don't have a wand, you prat!" And then Potter's bedroom door slammed shut.

Draco stared after him for several long seconds when Kreacher popped back in front of him.

"Master Draco's room is being ready for him."

"Thank you." If he felt at all odd about thanking a house-elf, it didn't register, and he waved the thought away as he ascended the stairs, choosing instead to focus on a hot shower and a bed that waited. As he passed down the hallway, he noticed the absence of lamplight coming from beneath Potter's door. He briefly entertained the notion of nudging open the door to see if Potter slept in a coffin or some such rot, but thought better of it.

Draco stepped into the bathroom and had to hold onto the door handle to keep from falling to his knees and praising Merlin for his mercy.

Ensuite didn't even come close to describing the luxury in front of him. He couldn't remember ever seeing a room like this at Grimmauld before; Potter must have taken liberties with wizarding space. A point in his favor.

The shower took up one entire wall and was tiled with an intricate and gorgeous dragon mosaic, the scales glittering from every angle. Multiple showerheads sprang from the walls, and at the back of the room, an enormous sunken tub spread out like a pool. He turned on the tap, and the shower came to life. Soon, steam was billowing out into the bathroom. Draco lifted his face and inhaled, the warm, moist air already feeling refreshing. He stripped out of his borrowed clothing and rummaged through one of the cabinets to find some halfway-decent shampoo and a body wash that reminded him of his own homemade concoctions. Clearly, some of Granger's influence had stuck with Potter.

He stepped under the spray and groaned. This was nothing like the cursory hose down he'd been given before he went to Potter's cell. This was pure, unadulterated bliss. And now it was his. Well, his and Potter's. He stood there for several minutes, allowing the water to cascade over him with the perfect amount of pressure of relieve some of the tension he'd been carrying. Feeling better, he got on with the business of washing the last traces of Azkaban from his body, satisfied that the remaining dregs of the awful place were headed down the drain where they belonged.

Draco turned to face the wall, bracing his hands and his forehead on the tiled dragon. He sighed deeply, finally reaching for the relaxation he was due. He straightened, running his hands over his wet face, and slicking the now clean locks of platinum out of his face. Draco turned to reach for the tap, and came almost face to face with Potter.

"Shit!" Draco yelled, stumbling back to hit the wall. He pressed a hand over his heart to calm himself as Potter stood there and stared. "For fuck's sake, Potter! What's the matter with you?" Water beat down on him as he sputtered and Potter's eyes roved over him, naked and prone.

"I heard you."

"Heard me? Heard me what? Scrubbing my balls?" Draco's voice hit a strangled high as he flung his arms in the air. "Circe's tits, someone should put a bell on you."

Potter was unmoved by his outburst. "I heard you."

He spoke with the indication that the simple phrase should be clear enough, and offered no gesture or other explanation to the contrary.

"Is this your arse-backwards way of telling me I'm showering too loudly? Because you're the one who offered me a shower in the first place. If you wanted me to wait, then you should have said something before I came in here and got naked and started lathering up my bits-" Draco's rant cut off when Potter stepped into to the shower, pajamas and all, and pressed two fingers to his cheek, tapping softly.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

"I heard _you_."

Recognition dawned and he suddenly felt like an idiot. "Oh."

Water was pelting them both, and Potter didn't seem to care that he was drenched from head to toe, nor did he seem to care that he had Draco pressed against the wall, with nothing between them but Potter's wet pajamas.

Potter's face skewed into an amalgam of agitated vulnerability. Draco felt the tension radiating off him as the vampire's body shook in tremors almost too minute to discern. He was holding back, either too stubborn or too arrogant to speak. Potter's eyes fluttered closed and Draco watched as drops of water collected on his lashes, rolling down his face in tiny, snakelike rivulets. When Potter opened his eyes on a deep breath, the earnestness in that green gaze nearly dropped Draco to his knees.

"I couldn't sleep. I keep hearing you," Potter said, shaking his head. "It's getting louder and louder. It's all I can hear." The vampire's voice was strained beyond measure and his hand crept from Draco's cheek to cradle his jaw. "You're everywhere in this house now. I'll be able to go anywhere and hear you." The hand tightened. "I don't want to hear you."

It was obvious this was the only step Potter was going to take. Perhaps it was the only one he knew how to take. So, Draco decided he would pave the way. This time.

"You hear me because you need me. You need to eat. Don't you see?" Draco hissed.

"No!" Potter spat.

Draco lunged and pushed his face into Potter's, ignoring the spray of water into his mouth and ear. "You need my blood, Potter! The heartbeat is just a bloody homing beacon for you. So you can come and drink your fill! So do it already!"

Potter snarled in fury before biting back in return, "I will hurt you!"

"Wouldn't be the first time." The words slipped out before he could call them back, and Potter recoiled as if Draco had slapped him. He knew the damage was done by the way Potter's eyes shot to his chest and went hard as he noticed the scars from another bathroom in another time. Draco wasn't sure if it was the steam from the shower or the blistering burn in Potter's gaze, but the temperature rose between them as if the gates of Hell had just been thrown wide open. He was placing his bet on Hell, because Potter's smile went deadly and his whole demeanor changed as he shoved Draco hard against the shower wall.

"Then you should be used to it."


	7. Chapter 7

Potter was on him with the flash of fangs and a curdled smile, digging into the juncture of where neck met shoulder. Draco hissed with pain as the vampire bit down with crushing force. His knees locked to keep from collapsing and his eyes slammed shut as he fought to stay upright. He railed against the suffocating sensation, and the scent of his own blood hit his nostrils. Potter's hands clamped down on his hips to brace him against the shower wall and hold him in place. It was sharp and caustic, and Draco didn't think he would ever catch his breath again when the bite shifted to a suck.

Instantly, the piercing shards of agony that sliced through him muddled, morphing to a slow burn as Potter drank. The pull on his flesh was tugging and beckoning, and to his horror, his body was responding. This was nothing like the first bite. It was only a taste of what was to come.

Potter's mouth gentled as his hands loosened their punishing grip, his thumbs rubbing small, soothing circles where they had been digging in moments before. Arousal reared its head, fierce and determined, and Draco felt himself harden underneath the vampire's ministrations. Potter grunted against his skin, and Draco knew he felt the hard ridge of his cock between them. The mouth at his neck sucked again, drawing more and more of his blood into Potter's body, and this time the sensation was warm and heady, deliciously soft, almost velvety as it coursed through his body.

Potter's hips surged forward on a powerful draw, and Draco threw his head back and keened at the sudden pressure of their aligning erections. His wet pajamas provided a cruel and maddening friction, rubbing in ways that only served to heighten the feeling.

Potter sucked and thrust, and sucked and thrust, beginning a dangerous rhythm that had his heart scrambling to match its cadence. Each pull of Potter's mouth on his skin was like an undertow, dragging him out to sea, and all Draco could do was throw his hands up and let it take him. The vampire moaned, deep and low in his throat, the sound more a growl of possession than of pleasure. The answering hardness from Potter's pajamas was undeniable proof that Draco wasn't the only one drowning on this sinking ship.

He let his hands press back against the shower wall, fighting against the urge to touch as Potter ravaged at his neck and rutted against him. He was afraid that if he disturbed Potter from his feed, it would anger him, much like a dog at his bowl, and he risked further injury, or worse, cause him to pull back and _stop_.

But Draco's body was no longer content to stand pliant, and against all good judgment, he began to move. He writhed beneath Potter, arching into him, his traitorous body all but begging for more. The action sparked something in the vampire, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, teasing and stroking, ghosting over his water-slick skin. Potter's hands mapped out the planes of Draco's chest and arms, and when his hand slid down to cover the Dark Mark and squeeze, Draco cried out in reckless abandon.

He was on fire, burning up from the inside out, lit by the matches that were Potter's fangs, fueled by the desire that Potter stoked in his belly. His arms shot out and wrapped around Potter's back, crushing them together. Potter's resulting growl was full-body, vibrating through him, and he leaned in to the embrace. His wet-shirt bunched between their bodies, scraping over Draco's nipples, making him hiss with pleasure.

Potter's hands snaked up his body and rested at the base of his neck before long, cruel fingers tangled in his hair and yanked, jerking his head back. His body bucked with a jolt of searing electricity, zipping along his nerves, making them sizzle. Draco whimpered as he felt the heated rush in his body and he was consumed with the image of his blood flowing out into Potter's mouth, pulsing through his veins, coursing with heat and _life_. If purpose was an illusion he once sought, it coalesced here and now, under Potter's sinful mouth and hands, beating out a staccato syncopation of _right_ and _yes_ and _yours_. His body was singing with it, rejoicing in it, lusting after it. And if he looked at it hard enough, through the right filters, he could feel Potter's body taking the offering with the same response. _Right. Yes. Yours._

He registered the sound of Potter's fingers snapping, and then there was a lube-slick hand palming the bare flesh of his cock. Draco gasped and bucked into the stroke of Potter's hand, moving along the shaft with distinctive purpose. Those fingers dipped backward to the cleft of his arse, circling his opening. It wasn't tentative or unsure, but single-minded, and Draco felt his legs part as if they had no other choice in the matter. He felt a finger slowly press on, working to breach the tight muscle. The lubrication mitigated the burn, but he honestly couldn't tell one fire from another at this point in time.

Potter's finger was dexterous, moving slowly back and forth until a second could be added. The pressure at his neck lessened as Potter slid another finger inside, scissoring them in a delicious stretch. The vampire's cock pressed at his groin, rubbing in short stabs that mimicked the movement of his fingers. Nonsensical sounds tumbled from Draco's lips, a chant of gasps, hisses, and broken pleas as Potter's fingers pumped in and out of his arse with focused precision.

Two fingers became three and Draco thought he would lose what was left of his mind. Potter moved faster now, both with his cock and his hand, and the brief moment of gentleness was gone. He was finger-fucking him now with abandon, and Draco's arms fell away to brace on the tile once more as he succumbed.

The surrender was not lost on Potter, who snarled against his skin and renewed the force of his bite. Potter still drank, in a tantalizing pull of lips, teeth, and tongue that had him dizzy and light-headed.

"P-Potter," he managed in a weak rasp.

He expected resistance, a protest, a harder pull at his vein even, but Potter's mouth went slack the instant he spoke, lifting to swipe a pointed tongue across the punctures to seal them. Then Potter's lips were on his, gently prying for entrance, which Draco granted on a breathy sigh.

He tasted of iron and darkness and of all things dangerous in this world. The kiss was little more than a mutual tasting of one another, and Potter licked through his mouth as if it would be last time. Draco's cock surged against them, heavy and swollen with want. Potter pulled back and dropped to his knees, still keeping his fingers at their punishing rhythm.

He buried his face in the crook of Draco's leg where thigh met body and licked a long stripe up his skin. "Next time," he promised, "I'll bite you here while you fuck yourself on my fingers."

Draco howled at the erotic image as Potter turned his face to swallow Draco's cock. Potter sucked and licked with same focus he had at Draco's neck, determined to pull as much out of him as he could. There was no question that there would be a next time, not anymore. And that thought was enough to set fire to any lingering doubts he might have had. This would be the status quo, the norm, the mundane. It would always be like this between them, fire and blood and sex. But where would it end? And how? He pushed the thought aside as Potter's mouth slid farther down, taking him all in as his fingers continue to ream Draco's arse.

It wasn't even the promise of the orgasm that was building that had him reeling. This was it. This was _everything_. This was the little death, this _feeling_ that had him on the razor's edge. It was the guillotine and the gallows all rolled into one, and Draco was ready to bare his neck and swing from the rafters to chase it into oblivion.

Potter's throat closed and rippled around him, and his tongue circled the length of his cock, while those agile fingers pressed up and up and up, going after that one spot that hurled him over the precipice. Draco groaned as he came, his body pulsing in waves down that silken vise, shivering while stars danced behind his eyes.

Potter licked him clean with the reverence of a saint for his deity, then slid back up Draco's body to mouth at his lips. Draco returned the kiss half-heartedly, panting through the blissful fog that enshrouded his brain.

"Draco, Draco, Draco." Potter whispered the litany of his name against his open mouth like a choir of avenging angels, their blades black with the blood of his soul. "I'll be damned forever with the taste of you on my lips."

And with that, he was gone, the soggy slap of his bare feet and a trail of water following him out of the room.

Draco sagged against the wall to slide down to the floor as his legs gave way. The spray turned icy, but he was unable to move, except to bring trembling fingers to press against his bruised mouth.

_Then you've damned me, too. _


	8. Chapter 8

Draco roused to the dancing flicker of lamplight. He stretched and turned, only to open sleep-heavy eyes on Potter lounging in a chair across the room staring at him with intense scrutiny.

"Fucking hell, Potter!" He yelled, sitting up and placing a hand over his chest in surprise. "You'll give me a heart attack at this rate. Was my heart beating too loud for you again?"

"No, this time I was just watching."

Draco's face scrunched in affront. "Do you enjoy being this creepy, or what?"

"Hermione's in the Floo," Potter replied, not shifting his gaze.

He snuffled and pulled the bed sheet close, suddenly realizing he was naked beneath it. "Then why are you in here?"

"She wants to talk to you."

"Oh," Draco said softly. Potter made no move to leave, and there was no way Draco was sauntering out of bed with his bits swinging around for the vampire to see. "If you don't mind," he said, gesturing to the door, "I'd like to get dressed. I'm naked under here if you haven't noticed."

"I noticed."

It should have still been creepy, but the answering flush at knowing that Potter noticed he was naked and stuck around anyway was sort of hot. And that was confusing and strange in a way he didn't want to think about, certainly not after the vigorous shower escapade from last night. Parts of him were still happily sore. Draco frowned and stabbed at the door. "Out, Potter. Your friend is waiting."

Potter stood and instead of walking to the door, stepped closer to the bed. Draco pressed back against the headboard and swallowed, unsure of what was about to happen. Potter reached out slowly and pulled the hand still resting across Draco's chest away. His eyes flicked to the faint ridges of the scars, as one finger trailed over them.

"I'm sorry," Potter said softly, his eyes dim with remembrance.

Draco pushed him away lightly and waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. It's in the past. I'd forgiven you a long time ago." He breathed out a heavy, put-upon sigh. "Consider it yet another tangible reminder of my predilection for extremely poor decision-making."

Potter's eyes drifted from his chest to the Dark Mark. "They suit you."

"Well, you certainly know how to sweet-talk a bloke." Draco scoffed, affecting Potter's tone, "'Disfigurement looks good on you, Malfoy'." He sneered and continued, "Nice fangs, Potter." Potter's eyes narrowed. "Stings doesn't it?"

Potter's lips curled as if he were going to smile. "Are you getting up anytime soon?"

"Not until you leave the room. You've annoyed me, so now I plan on denying you the sight of my glorious nakedness. A worthy and just punishment."

Potter rolled his eyes and snorted.

Draco shooed him with his hand. "There. You've been duly chastised. Off with you."

He pulled on the pajamas he never quite made it into the night before, making his way downstairs to find Granger's head in the Floo with Potter sitting calmly on the sofa thumbing through an old copy of Quidditch Today, completely ignoring her. To her credit, she was glaring straight at him.

At the sound of his footsteps, she perked up. "Hello, Draco."

"Good evening, Hermione."

Potter rattled the magazine as he flipped another page, not sparing a glance for either of him.

"Potter said you wanted to talk to me?" he asked lightly, perching on the edge of the sofa to face her, making a show of arranging himself with his back to Potter. If Potter wanted to sulk, he would happily oblige, but he didn't have to see it.

She smiled and nodded. "Yes. I wanted to let you know that everything has been squared with Gringotts, and you now have access. Oh, yes, your wand was supposed to be returned to you, but no one could seem to lay hands on it. However, you're clear to visit Ollivander's and-"

"I have it," Harry said from his end of the sofa, not looking up.

Draco whipped his head around so fast he almost tumbled to the floor. "You have it? My wand?"

Harry licked his forefinger, fangs peeking out from beneath his lip and turned another page. "That's what I said."

"Oh, well, problem solved, then," Hermione chirped. "Also, I wanted to extend an invitation on behalf of Molly and Arthur. They would like it if you and Harry could come to a late supper at the Burrow tomorrow evening, and-"

"No." Potter's voice was firm, and Hermione's head craned around Draco to frown at Potter.

Draco followed her movement, turning his own moue of displeasure on the vampire. "And why the hell not?" True, the thought of being surrounded by Weasleys had once been unthinkable, but given the situation, it might be in his best interest to play nice. And the fact that Potter was so adamant about not going only increased Draco's desire to do so.

"No," Potter repeated.

"Harry, she wants to talk to Draco." Hermione's voice was insistent, but her eyes were tinged with trepidation, as if she couldn't quite gauge how far to push. Draco had no doubt that she and the rest of the Weasley clan had been on the receiving end of Potter's volatile vampiric temper.

"Then she can send him an owl."

Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to Hermione. "Don't listen to him. We'll be there. What time?"

"Half-nine good for you?" she asked.

Draco shot her a winning smile. "Wonderful."

Hermione cleared her throat and chanced a glance at Potter. "Draco, would you give us a moment, please?"

He briefly entertained the notion that Potter shouldn't be left alone with her, but put that out of his head in an instant. Temper he may have, but Draco didn't think deep down that he could be as callous as to hurt her. Strangers, in a hunger and rage induced state, hell yes, but a bossy Granger? Not likely.

He nodded. "Of course." Draco stopped at the foot the stairs and looked back at her. "It was lovely to see you again, Hermione. I look forward to tomorrow. Please thank Mrs. Weasley for her gracious invitation."

Potter snorted from the couch.

"Goodnight, Draco," she answered.

Hermione's smile dropped from her face and the familiar mask of resigned disappointment settled across her features. _Ah, it was to be one of those talks. _

"I don't see why it's such an imposition for you to come to dinner with Draco at the Burrow."

Harry tamped down his ire at her general intrusion and placed the magazine to the side. "You know why."

"And all has been forgiven. You're the only one who can't seem to get past it," she reminded him.

"Right," he snapped back. "And you only asked Draco because you knew if you asked me I would say no, and that he would say yes just to spite me."

Damn the woman for smiling with all the smugness of a Slytherin. "Correct." Brown eyes he remember so well sparkled. "Worked, too."

"Well, maybe you should have asked me, then. You might have gotten a different response."

"Bullshit. You don't get to do this," she warned. "You don't get to push us away, and then when we leave you in peace, get pissy because we don't come begging for your attention. You didn't want to be part of this family anymore, so we let you go. And it nearly broke us all. But Draco needs family now, and Molly has things that he needs to hear. The fact that you're along for the ride is par for the course."

"I won't be where I'm not welcome." He hated that his voice sounded suspiciously like a pout.

"The only one who said you weren't welcome was you."

"Nearly ripping Ron's face off tends to put a damper on harmonious familial relations."

"And who came to you with his hand out, apologizing to you, when it should have been the other way around?" Her voice ascended into a higher pitch as she spoke. "Who tried to mend things with you? Who tried to help you make peace with your transition? Who tried to make you see that he still loved you, no matter what?"

Rage coated in shame rushed through his veins. "Enough!" he snarled. "Don't talk to me about Ron."

"Well, how about I talk to you about Draco, then?" she continued, not missing a beat. Her voice lowered and she hissed, "You should be ashamed of yourself, Harry Potter."

"What did I do this time?"

A pointy finger came stabbing with accusation through the fire. "Did you see his neck? How could you do that and not heal him, for Merlin's sake?" Indignant fire blazed in her eyes, and Harry swore underneath his breath as that look on her face confirmed the truth. Draco was her new cause.

"Why? Does it disgust you?" he shot back.

"Of course not, you idiot. But did you stop to think about how Malfoy might not want to waltz around the Wizarding world with your claim for all to see?"

Harry's brow furrowed. What was the problem here? Malfoy certainly seemed to enjoy the attention, and certainly hadn't persuaded him from continuing to feed. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it, Harry. Draco's always been vain, that's no secret, but his appearance is the one thing in his life he's had control over." She paused for breath. "He's ashamed of the Mark, you know. Tried to keep it out of my sight line at Azkaban. He knows people see that and assume the worst of him. And now he's got to try to acclimate himself to a society that's already prejudiced against him. How do you think he's going to feel when he has to walk in public, not only with the Mark, but you poking holes in him like a Crup toy? Or is that your plan, to deny him the right to be accepted by shuttering him away with you here at Grimmauld?" Her disappointment sat on his shoulders like weights. "It's no way to live. You know that, so why in the hell would you put that on Draco?"

"He doesn't have to be here. He has a choice." The argument was weak, and Harry knew it. But he was feeling far too agitated to make a good showing. It was always the same when he tried to talk to Hermione or the others. He started feeling things he didn't want to, and suddenly he couldn't make heads or tails of the situation, and letting the vampire come out was so much easier than trying to do the right thing.

"Yes, you pillock, and he chose you! He could have stayed in Azkaban, but he didn't. And before you insult me by saying he's only here because it was a chance at freedom, I'll tell you that he was under no illusions. He knew that you were the price to pay for it. He was willing to take a chance on you. So have the decency not to treat him like crap."

"I treat him very well," Harry smirked. "He has the bite marks to prove it."

Hermione snorted. "Please. I don't care what you get up to with him in the bedroom, if you're doing that as you're not-so-subtly implying. Just do it where only you can and he can see. Make it something you share between the two of you instead of something that flaunts your carelessness of him to the rest of us."

Harry paled as her words struck home. "Are you finished?"

"No," she sniffed. "I have no doubt that so far he's lived up to his end of the contract. You look better already. He'll be good to you, and if you have any feeling of mercy left in you, which I think you do, you'll return the favor. Be good to him, Harry. He's the only one who can give you everything you need."

He turned his face, not wanting her to see his internal conflict made external by the shame he could feel coloring his cheeks. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, 'Mione."

"Goodnight. Love you, see you."

She was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

"You can come out now, Malfoy. She's gone."

Draco came down the stairs to find Potter sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. My name a few times, but mostly your mumbled grumbling and her exasperated dressing down."

Potter's eyebrow rose. "Really?"

He sniffed at the insult. "Of course. She asked for privacy, and I gave it to her. I didn't go out of my way to listen. That would be rude, Potter."

Potter sat back and turned to stretch out on the couch, closing his eyes. The soft glow of the lamplight was kind to his features, softening the lines of his jaw, and giving his skin a golden hue that made him look more mortal than usual.

"Kreacher's left you a plate in the kitchen. Smells like roast beef. I almost had some myself."

Draco headed to the kitchen and found his plate under a warming charm. He rummaged through the cabinets to find a glass and filled it with water from the tap. Potter made no effort to point out were things were, so he rifled through the drawers for some cutlery and then took his plate and glass to the table. He pulled out the chair to sit, wincing as the legs made a loud, scraping noise.

"Do you actually eat?" Draco asked between delicate bites, silently blessing the house-elf for having above average cooking skills. "Or are you on a strictly liquid Malfoy diet?"

Potter let out a soft snort, but didn't look up. "I can eat. Small portions, though. I find that most foods don't smell good enough to interest me, and generally, if it doesn't smell like something I want, it tastes like nothing. So, I've rather gotten out of the habit."

"Yes," Draco said, twirling his fork in the air, "but is there anything you miss? Merlin's beard, I think I would go spare if chocolate no longer appealed to me."

"I seem to remember you had a ravenous sweet tooth. Your mother sent you sweets to Hogwarts all the time."

Draco's fork fell from his hand and clattered to the plate, causing Potter to swear and jump to his feet. The blood rushed from his face and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He glanced down and picked up the fork. "Sorry. It-it slipped."

Potter looked contrite, but said nothing to confirm the emotion. "Treacle tart."

"What?"

Potter stepped closer to the table. "You asked what I miss. I miss treacle tart."

Draco swallowed. "Have Kreacher bake you one. He's no slouch in the kitchen."

"Molly Weasley's is the best."

And there it was. If Draco had felt anguish at the mention of his mother, then it had moved on to Potter at his mention of Molly Weasley. They both had losses to mourn, but it irked Draco that Potter's sorrow was a bed of his own making. He could mend fences. Draco, however, couldn't commune with the dead. His appetite suddenly deserted him, and pushed back the plate.

Potter eyed the movement with disapproval. "You should eat more."

Draco stood up from the table and walked into the sitting room. "Not as hungry as I thought I was."

"You should keep your strength."

"If you're worried about blood loss, I'm not about to faint on you, Potter."

"That's not what I meant," Potter snapped, following Draco into the room.

Draco rolled his eyes as he plopped down in the corner of the old sofa. He was certain that Malfoys didn't plop, but being here with Potter and his lack of formality was freeing. There would be more plopping on furniture in the future. "Sure. Besides, once I get access to my trust, I should be able to purchase supplies and brew my own blood-replenishing potions." He cast a glance at Potter's drawn brow. "Well, should I need them, anyway. I suppose I am correct in assuming that you do not have anything that could remotely resemble a potions lab here?"

"No," was Potter's terse reply.

"I guess that's just as well," Draco said with an air, running a hand through his hair. "You were always crap at potions. Perhaps I can owl McGonagall and see if I can use an old classroom or something."

Potter sat at the opposite end of the sofa, tucking himself in to face Draco as if they were sitting down to tea. "Is that something you see yourself doing, then? Potions?"

Draco smiled, pleasant with the feeling of chatting about a subject close to his heart. "We'll see if it's possible. Without my NEWTs, and of course, this old thing," he shook his left forearm, "I don't think there's a Potions Master in Britain who would agree to apprentice me. And without that, I couldn't be licensed by the Ministry, no matter how free they tell me I am."

Potter's eyes sparkled with interest. "But what if you could? Find a Master to apprentice you, I mean? What would you do? Open your own shop?"

"My own shop?" Draco scoffed. "Who in the bloody hell would willingly walk into any establishment I own?" He shook his head. "No, it would have to be mail order. And under a name that certainly isn't Malfoy."

"I don't think it's as out of your reach as you might think." Potter tilted his head to the side and studied him, as if he were a puzzle that somehow needed to be solved.

"It's a dream, Potter. The reality is that I'll be here, doing nothing with my time except reading your old magazines, and doing my best to make sure what's left of my wealth can sustain me until either you or I finally expire." Draco laid his head back and closed his eyes. "And what about you? How do you plan to spend the rest of this existence we have together? Since terrorizing people at large is no longer an option, what will you do with your time?"

"Don't," Potter said through clenched teeth. Draco opened his eyes and lifted his head to face the vampire.

He tilted his head in deference. "You're right. That was uncalled for. I apologize." He turned away from the irritation in Potter's face to pick at a threadbare patch of sofa. "Anyway, I assumed you would be far ensconced in political derring-dos by now." Draco placed a hand over his heart and affected an awe-struck demeanor. "The dashing Auror Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, on the fast track to great and important things at our paragon of justice," he waggled his eyebrows and whispered in a hushed tone of reverence, "The Ministry."

"Nope," he smiled. "Vampirism is a sure career killer."

Draco laughed in spite of himself. "Yes, I can see how that would put a damper on one's political machinations. And you're not married, either. That was unexpected. Merlin knows the appropriately-fawning Ginevra Weasley wouldn't have looked out of place on your arm at Ministry galas. I would have thought by now you would be up to your ears in domesticated bliss with a passel of ginger-haired Potter spawn running around."

Potter's face hardened. "It didn't work out."

"Well, why the hell not? The two of you danced around for ages."

Potter was silent for a moment, then blew out a breath as his features relaxed. "Things were complicated after the end of the war, and we realized that neither of us were the people we thought we were. So we broke it off. But not before she came to the conclusion that I'm gay," he added with a hint of scorn. "Which isn't the case. She couldn't accept that it was more the fact that we were unsuitable." He shrugged. "I never identified as gay. Never really thought about it."

It was on the tip of his tongue to remind him that not more than twelve hours ago Potter had been knuckles-deep inside Draco's arse with his mouth wrapped around his cock, and if that didn't make one gay, well, what did? But the resigned expression and strained tension on Potter's face made him decide on the better part of valor and keep his opinion to himself for the moment. However, there had already been two clear (and very, very gay) occasions in which Draco would have bet good Galleons on Potter riding the proverbial broomstick, so he formulated his interrogation accordingly.

"Do women turn you on?" he asked lightly.

"What do you mean?" Potter's brow furrowed as if the meaning somehow eluded him.

"I mean, does the thought of fucking a woman turn you on? All that creamy skin, soft curves, and say, a pair of tits made to fit in the palm of your hand?" He waved his finger in a circular motion at Potter's crotch. "Lighting any fires?"

Potter thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Not really."

"And what about a man? The light scratch of stubble against your cheek, perhaps? Deeper, breathier moans, the feel of hard muscle beneath you. The weight of a cock in your hand? The taste of it in your mouth?" Green eyes glazed for a moment, and Potter's breath hitched. "Does the thought of fucking a man turn you on?"

Potter licked his lips and replied without hesitation. "The thought of fucking you does."

Draco's mouth fell open, but he hastily snapped it shut, hoping his recovery looked quicker than it felt. "Of course it does. I may be a little thinner than I used to be, but I'm still stunning. Honestly, Potter, I'm gorgeous. Who wouldn't want to fuck me?"

When he advanced, it was so quick that for a second he thought Potter was about bend him over and do exactly that. The sudden arousal that spiked let him know that his body didn't seem averse to the idea. Especially when Potter stared at him with clear and blatant interest. Draco opened his mouth to head off any such rash decision with a snarky retort, but Potter's eyes went soft and drifted to his neck.

"I can heal those for you," Potter said, pulling aside the gaping neckline of Draco's too-big t-shirt and ghosting his index finger across the two puncture marks. The touch was feather-light, and Draco bit his lip to fight back a shiver.

"No. It's fine, really."

A hint of a sad smile crossed the vampire's lips. "Another tangible reminder of extremely poor decision-making?"

Draco shrugged, staring into Potter's eyes. "That remains to be seen."

Potter let out a non-committal hum as his hand fell away from Draco's neck. He looked as if he had more to say, but the vampire's features closed, returning back to the emotionless mask. Potter sat back, out of Draco's personal space. "You should get dressed. There's some things in the wardrobe that should fit. We'll head to Gringotts for your key and then we should have enough time to get you to Diagon Alley for some new clothes before the shops close."

It was late, and Draco didn't really feel like gearing up to make his first appearance in the world at large just yet. "Why don't we go tomorrow afternoon, before we head to the Weasley supper?"

The tension was back in Potter's face and he said sharply, "I don't go out in sunlight."

Draco scoffed. "There's potions for that, you know. You don't have to hole up here-"

Potter's hand slashed through the air. "We go now, or we don't go at all. I don't go out in sunlight." The finality in Potter's tone came across through clenched teeth and a death glare.

Something cold skittered down his spine and Draco swallowed hard against it to reply, "I'll just get dressed then, shall I?"

The line of Potter's jaw relaxed and he stumbled over a terse, "Thank you."


	10. Chapter 10

"Stop fidgeting! And for Merlin's sake, fix your tie!" Draco hissed. "It's bad enough I have to face these people, who have every right to AK me where I stand, but I will be damned if I have to do it with you looking like you've been trampled by a herd of wild hippogriffs!"

Potter glanced down at his shirt and trousers, both impeccably crisp. He reached a hand to tug at his collar.

"Touch your collar again and I will rip those fangs out of your face and owl them to Granger as a parting gift." Potter's hand dropped to his side.

Draco swore under his breath and knocked on the door. It opened seconds later and Arthur Weasley's face broke into a bright smile. "Harry, Draco! So glad you're here!" He stepped aside and held open the door. "Come in, come in! Molly's been climbing the walls waiting for you."

"Mr. Weasley," Draco said smoothly as he crossed the threshold.

"We don't stand on ceremony at the Burrow, Draco. It's Arthur to you."

He fought back the urge to gape at the overt friendliness. Was it possible that the age-old feud had withered and died along with Lucius Malfoy and his prejudices?

"Very well," Draco supplied. "Arthur, it is." He held out a slightly shaky hand, which Arthur took without the slightest reservation. They shook warmly and he ushered Draco further inside.

Arthur braced Harry with an open, inviting face and stuck his hand out. "Harry, it's good to see you."

Draco held his breath as Potter offered his in return and shook Arthur's hand with a measure of familiarity. And he was just as surprised as Potter when Arthur pulled him and wrapped an arm around Potter's back and clapped him hard.

"We've missed you, son."

_Son._

Potter's face tensed and a myriad of conflicting emotions danced in his eyes. An unmistakable yearning coupled with anger and regret. In that moment, Draco felt for Potter. And he knew that no matter how much of a bastard Lucius Malfoy had been, he would have given anything for an embrace and declaration of affection like that. Potter pulled back.

"Yes, it has been a while."

They stepped further inside and Draco looked up at the bounding of footsteps down the stairs. Granger smiled and headed toward him, with Weasley behind her, calling out, "They're here!"

Granger's face was warm and pleased as she took Draco's hands and pressed a small kiss to his cheek. "Draco, you're here."

All his years of pureblood training kicked in and he bowed formally before kissing the back of her hand. "Hermione. You look lovely this evening."

"Oi! That's my wife, Ferret!" Weasley bellowed.

When Draco raised his head, he was surprised to find a twinkle in the Auror's eye. "That she is, Weasley. You're a very lucky man."

Weasley stepped forward and offered him his hand. Draco took it and smiled as they shook hands.

"I'm still going to call you 'Ferret', you know. Old habits."

"Perhaps we can relegate 'Ferret' and 'Weasel' to the manliest of jibes? However, the occasional 'Draco' or 'Ronald' wouldn't be amiss, don't you think?" Draco replied.

Weasley grinned. "Whatever you say, Ferret."

Draco turned to find Granger staring at Potter with trepidation. He stood straight, mouth pinched in a tight line. They stood that way for a moment before she sighed, "Oh, Harry!" and flung her arms around his neck. Potter didn't move, but then his eyes closed and his arms slid around her in return. Weasley let out a small gasp of surprise. Granger's body shook in Potter's arms and the unmistakable sound of muffled tears filtered from their embrace.

She pulled back and swiped the back of her hand over her face, stepping back to take a long look at Potter. Her hands came up to smooth over the line of his shoulders in a nervous, fluttery gesture, and then over his tie, as if she had to keep touching him in order to convince herself he was real. Weasley gently brushed her aside and took up her place in front of Potter. His face had softened, and he stared at Ron with the same pinched expression and held out his hand.

"Ron," Potter said, his voice clipped.

Ron frowned and bypassed Potter's hand, dragging the man into a full-body hug. "You'll not shake my hand like a bloody stranger, Harry Potter."

Potter managed to hold out his resistance for a beat longer than with Hermione, but soon, he was returning Ron's hug. Two more sets of footsteps sounded on the stairs and Potter's eyes shot up over Ron's shoulder and he stiffened. Ron turned and waved over the newcomers, oblivious of Potter's wariness.

Draco only turned when a shadow crossed his vision and looked up. Again, the age-old Malfoy lineage reared its head, cool and polite, as Draco's eyes passed right over the scarred face and to rest on the haunted blue eyes. He offered a broad smile and a steady hand. "Draco Malfoy."

The handshake was perfunctory. "Bill Weasley."

Potter cleared his throat beside him, and the sound came out as more of a warning than anything else.

"Bill."

Bill's eyes shifted, but he didn't move from in front of Draco. "Harry."

There was silence, but only brief before Potter offered, "Good to see you."

Bill smiled, though it looked more of a grimace. "Welcome home."

Suddenly, Bill was shoved unceremoniously to the side and Draco found himself staring face-to-face with the last Weasley he wanted to see.

George Weasley glowered down at him. "I suppose you think you can walk in here like nothing's happened?"

"George!" Hermione and Ron both shouted.

Draco held up a hand, having anticipated this reaction from the moment he accepted the invitation. "It's all right."

George's fists clenched by his side, and Draco swore he heard Potter growl from his right. But he spared no glance, keeping his attention on George.

"I expected nothing of the sort."

"I lost my brother," George spat. "And I should hate you for it." Draco saw the rage swimming in George's eyes temper and soften as he cast a glance at Potter. "But I can't," he said, softer this time. "Because I may have lost a brother, but you've returned another. And there isn't anything I can do but thank you for it." With that, George swept Draco into a forceful hug. It lasted only a second or two before he reached out and grabbed for Potter, pulling him into the embrace.

"Harry! Draco! You're here! George, let them breathe!" Molly Weasley's voice preceded her entrance, presumably from the kitchen, if the aroma that followed her was any indication.

George let go and they stumbled back, Potter's hand reaching out to steady his elbow.

Her eyes were bright and full of nothing but Potter as she came forward, stopping in front of him with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The smile that graced her face was apprehensive, yet warm and full of love.

"Mrs. Weasley," Potter said, tension pulling his voice tight.

Her restraint faltered and she pulled Potter into a hug. "Harry," she whispered. "We've missed you so much."

At his stiffening, she let Potter go and turned her eyes on Draco, sniffing delicately. "And you, Draco, how good of you to come."

"I was delighted to receive the invitation, Mrs. Weasley," Draco replied with a formal bow.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, waving a hand in the air. "Coats off! Supper's about ready!"

Draco shrugged off his coat and pulled out the beribboned bottle from the inside, offering it to Molly with a smile.

"What's this?" she asked.

His lips curled higher into a grin and he replied with mock seriousness, "Mother would never forgive me if I neglected to bring a hostess gift, and since Potter refused to wear the bow, I'm afraid the Ogden's will have to do."

Potter's head swiveled to glare at him while the others stifled bright chirps of laughter. Molly took the bottle and Draco's coat, holding out a hand for Potter's as well. The frown on his face dissipated somewhat as he handed it over.

"Into the dining room, everyone! Arthur, help me bring everything out," Molly said briskly, turning to hand the coats over to Ron.

The beginnings of dinner went off with the clatter of dishes and cutlery as Potter sat quietly next to him, looking sorely out of place. Draco cast a glance around the table, noting that no one seemed to mind tucking in to the food while Potter's plate sat empty in front of him.

Molly looked up at that moment. "Harry, dear, you're welcome to retire to the sitting area and open up that Ogden's until dessert if you would be more comfortable."

"Yeah," George piped up. "You're the only one who doesn't have to be subjected to watching Ron shovel it in."

"Oi!" Ron protested, mouth gaping.

"Close your mouth!" Hermione hissed, elbowing him from the side. "We've talked about this."

Draco felt Potter stiffen, but he managed a smile for Molly. "No, thank you, Molly. I'm rather enjoying the company."

She beamed and nodded, continuing her meal.

"Where is Percy?" Potter added.

Bill shook his head. "Percy doesn't come to Sunday supper. Charlie's still in Romania. He doesn't get home much, but when he does, you can count on him at the table."

There was some grumbling around the table at the mention of Percy, but it died out quickly.

"And Ginny? Where is she?"

Bill opened his mouth again as Ron's brows shot into his hairline.

"Not here," Molly said with authority.

Potter glanced at Ron, who, despite chewing with enthusiasm, shot Potter a look that left no doubt to Draco's mind that there was a story behind her absence.

Draco chatted amicably with Hermione, and exchanged a few words with Bill and George when he noticed Potter becoming increasingly more agitated next to him. He was wound so tight, Draco thought he might snap under the strain at any moment. He made a show of smoothing his napkin and let his left hand drift under the table to rest on Potter's thigh. Potter visibly tensed as Draco squeezed to remind him of his presence. A cool hand gripped his and made to push it aside, but Draco thrummed his fingers and Potter froze.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

After a few seconds, Potter relaxed, and the grip he had on Draco's hand loosened considerably.

Dinner plates were cleared as everyone finished and Molly returned from the kitchen, her hands full.

"Dessert, Draco?" she asked.

Draco smiled and sat back in his chair, letting his right hand rest on his abdomen. "Merlin, Molly, you're a menace to my waistline! If you keep feeding me like this, I'll put on two stone by the end of the year, and Potter will have to roll me wherever we go."

The good-natured chuckling from the rest of the table was encouraging. Potter, however, wasn't amused.

"Treacle tart," she proclaimed, "Harry's favorite."

Draco smiled winningly. "Well, then, let's have it." He turned the grin on Potter. "You've got strong arms, don't you, Potter?"

"Shut it."

Draco laughed along with the rest of the table.

"Harry?" Molly asked softly. "Can I cut you a piece?"

He knew Potter wanted to tell her no, to be left out the conversation entirely, but Draco squeezed lightly on his thigh again, and his breath caught as Potter squeezed back and turned his face to Molly.

"Yes. That would be lovely."

Molly's joy was palpable as she placed the tart on the table and began to slice.


	11. Chapter 11

The table was nearing empty as Bill, George, and Ron stood up to clear the dishes at their mother's request. Draco looked up to his right as Hermione suddenly appeared, laying a soft hand on his shoulder.

"Could I speak with you a moment, Draco?" She cast a glance at Potter. "If you don't mind, Harry?"

"Of course he doesn't," Draco smirked. He reached out patted Potter's hand. "Don't run off, now."

Potter glowered and waved him off as Hermione drew him into the small living area. She closed the door behind her and motioned for Draco to sit beside her on the sofa.

"Tell me, how is he, honestly?" The pointed question came as no surprise.

Draco shrugged. "Honestly? I don't know. It's been surreal, to say the least."

"Do you think he's still dangerous? I'm only asking because the Ministry-"

"He's vampire, Hermione," Draco cut in. "He'll always be dangerous. But, I don't think he quite knows what to do with himself yet. Not with the bond. He's used to doing whatever the bloody hell he wanted and now he's got to think of someone else."

"And?"

Draco chuckled. "And, he's not very good at it. Yet." He sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs. "It's too early to predict the eventualities. I mean, I know we have to find some way to make it work, but the why is certainly easier than the how."

"Well, you're looking a bit better, at any rate," she said. "Still a little too pale for my liking, though. Get some sunshine."

"And freckle?" Draco shuddered. "Then I would be more than a Weasley by proxy. The horror."

She swatted his arm. "Stop it."

"Besides, I'm afraid there won't be much sunlight in my future." Draco's gaze sharpened on her. How much did she really know about Potter that she hadn't given up? He picked at the knee of his trousers, banishing a piece of invisible lint. "Were you aware that he doesn't go out in sunlight? When I mention potions for that, he became downright intractable." Draco paused. "Frighteningly so."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Those particular potions are under strict control from the Vampire Council and the Ministry. You have to be approved to just to get on the list for permission to obtain them."

"I take it Potter wasn't approved?" Draco said silkily.

"That's just it," she sighed. "He was. And then he started having trouble, and his position on the list was revoked."

"Can he get it back?"

Hermione tilted her head to the side, thinking. "Possibly, provided that you and he are cohabitating and fulfilling the requirements of the Consort bond. But, he would have to find a Ministry-approved brewer willing to sell to him once he was back on the list. And given how the media has touted his every crime, it's not likely. It's terrible, but that's how it is."

Draco nodded, not in agreement, but distractedly as she spoke. If Potter's behavior was atrocious as he was led to believe, then there was little chance that any Potions Master worth his salt wanted to be responsible for providing The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Fanged-Menace with a license to wreak havoc in daylight hours as well as dark. There had to be a solution. Giving Potter back the ability to go out in sunlight might alter his perceptions of his situation. Possibly a way for him to feel more normal. It was something Draco needed to look into. And soon.

Before he could reply, a gentle knock came from the door and Potter stuck his head in. "Draco, Molly would like to speak with you if you're done. She's outside on the back patio."

"Yes," he said rising. "Thank you. I'm on my way." He turned to Hermione. "Always a pleasure, Hermione."

She smiled back warmly as Potter and Weasley brushed past him. "Anytime, Draco. If you need anything, owl or Floo me."

Draco stepped out onto the patio to find Molly sitting at a little outdoor table, pouring tea into cups from a sturdy, but well-kept teapot.

"Tea, Draco?"

He pulled out one of the chairs and sat. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."

She poured him a cup and pushed the sugar bowl toward him. He helped himself to two teaspoons and stirred.

"Potter said you wanted to see me. I'm presuming this isn't about tea."

Molly smiled in the way of all wise women. It was a look he'd seen grace his mother's face often.

"No difficult conversation should ever take place without the comfort of a cuppa, dear."

His fingers tightened around the chipped china. "Difficult?"

Molly sipped from her cup and set it down with a delicate _clink_. "I have something for you. From your mother."

It was a wonder the cup didn't snap in his hands. To avoid the faux pas, he set it down gently with barely steady hands. "You-you saw my mother?" The breathy desperation in his voice was heavy on his ears.

She nodded. "Yes. I spoke with her at length about two weeks before-well, before she passed."

Passed.

He thought it should be a testament to Molly's character that she phrased her words so carefully. Merlin knew there were many others, including most of the Azkaban guard, who took great pleasure in reminding him that Narcissa Malfoy had killed herself.

"She had asked Harry if it was alright if she stopped by," Molly continued. "When Harry told me, I owled her right away and invited her to tea at the Burrow." She paused to smile fondly. "Imagine my surprise when she accepted."

Draco swallowed. "She did?"

It was hard to imagine his mother ever consenting to visit the Burrow, much less sit down with Molly Weasley for tea. But he remembered the drawn look on her face at the trials, and the defeat in her eyes when he and his father had been sentenced. Their lives had changed so drastically by the end of the war, and things once found abhorrent didn't seem so terrible anymore. It was easy to forget that once upon a time he would have rather died than be under Potter's thumb. If he could swallow his pride and bare his neck for Potter, surely his mother made time for tea.

"Yes, she did. And we had a very cathartic chat. It was a bit awkward at first, what with the lingering feud—"

"It's in the past," Draco supplied.

Molly's lips twitched. "That's exactly what she said." Her hand dipped beneath the table and reappeared with a small, cream colored envelope. She laid it on the table as she fixed Draco with her gaze. "We both lost sons, your mother and I. And she lost a husband as well. No matter what I think about Lucius Malfoy, she loved him. Deeply, as much as I love my Arthur. His loss was great. She wanted me to give you this upon your release. I have a feeling she had this planned for quite some time." Molly's eyes softened as she smiled. "I gained a new respect for your mother in those teatime hours. And for you as well, Draco." She slid the envelope across the table. "I don't know what's in there, but I'm pretty sure I can guess. There's a large tree in the back left corner of the yard," Molly gestured with a finger over her shoulder. "Ginny charmed fairy lights on it ages ago, and the damned things don't ever shut off. I think it would be a good place for you to read that."

Molly patted his hand and went inside, leaving him alone at the table. He turned the envelope over in his hands, running a finger across the raised wax seal he could draw from memory. In the distance, the tiny spots of light hung in the air like low-lying stars. With a dread that bubbled up from his toes, he walked toward them.


	12. Chapter 12

The fairy lights winked in the moonlight, illuminating the trunk of the large tree with just enough light to read by. Draco raised the envelope, taking a good look at the wax seal again before letting his fingers brush lightly across the surface. Inside were his mother's last words. Her last thoughts. He wasn't certain of what he would find, and part of him almost stuffed it into his trousers to be forgotten. But there was no way he could deny her, not now, not after having lost her.

He pressed back against the tree trunk and flicked his fingernail under the wax to break the seal. As he lifted the letter from the envelope, the faint, mingled scents of rose and night-blooming jasmine nearly brought him to his knees.

_My dearest Draco,_

_If this letter has found its way into your hands, then Molly Weasley has done what I have asked of her and for that, I am ever in her debt._

_By now, you know what has transpired, and I feel terrible that I was not able to see your face one last time. Alas, even if I had, I don't know that I would have expressed my reasons for this in person._

_When you and your father were sentenced (even writing the word causes me heartache), I felt as though my entire world had been taken from me. I know, even despite the Potter boy's testimony, that your father would bear the worst. I was prepared for that. I had been for quite some time, from the very beginnings of your father's shadowed plans, but I will admit that hope still lived in a tiny corner of my breast._

_Azkaban proved to be a greater hardship than he intended, and I do not doubt that all of his faults, for he had many, had finally caught up to him in the end. His death was an unbearable loss to me. I tried to think on the happy moments of our marriage as comfort, but as time went on, they offered me less solace than I needed._

_Seven years. And while it seems only a fraction of time, it is an eternity to a mother's heart. I am grateful to Potter that he spared you the same sentence as your father, but the reality of these years without you is a strain that I am unable to bear. I know the Ministry still holds you accountable for the small part you played in a wider scheme of evil. How I wish I could have been stronger and protected you more, but your desire to please Lucius was so great, and I found I could deny you nothing. Not even the opportunity to earn the affection from a man who required so much more of you than you could deliver._

_Your father was a complicated and dark man, but he loved us both in his own way. In time, I hope you will see that._

_My fear is that you will never be free of the taint of our family name – surely the Ministry will perpetuate the animosity as long as it is able. Which is why I have come to realize that your life will be even harder when and if you are set free._

_I find that is something I cannot stomach, and I have resigned myself to the cowardice that keeps me from being able to watch that happen. I wish to remember you as you were – a charming, sweet, affectionate child with mischievous eyes and a laugh that lightened my heart. And so it will be._

_I cannot apologize for the means I have taken, my stubborn Black blood flows too freely to allow me that weakness. And so I say to you – live as best you can with the time you are given. Let go of the prejudices of the past and embrace the possibilities of tomorrow._

_Molly and I spoke at length and I found myself amazed at the strength of her character. We managed to find common ground as mothers. Women who only want the best for their families. She has promised to look after you, and I beseech you to let her. She is a woman who needs to mother, and you have always been a boy who requires it, no matter how much you protest to the contrary. The Weasleys are not the enemy, and I am not certain they ever were. It is our arrogance that pitted us against others, and I hope you can see how far we have fallen because of this hubris. There is very little, perhaps nothing, that we have left in this world, but Molly has assured me she will help you in any way she can. I believe her._

_Family has been everything to us, sometimes to the exclusion of good sense and common decency, and I can rest easier knowing that you will be cared for. Love will grow; you merely have to nurture the seed._

_There are two ways I will ask you to honor my memory. First, embrace the Weasleys and the rambunctious nature of their love. It is messy, unrefined, and like nothing you have ever experienced. Be open to it. Do not be afraid to hold back your heart, because I know you shall flourish. Second, and perhaps the more difficult of the two – find Harry Potter._

_Heed my words, Draco. Harry Potter is not the boy of your childhood feuds. He is a man, burdened by a greatness he does not know how to navigate. I am not ashamed to admit how much I admire him. He persists at being an Auror, and sometimes I think the world has slotted him as Savior and refuses to allow him any other choice in the matter. He is troubled, unhappy, I think, and I fear his presence of mind is very low. He trusts with skepticism, but he loves deeply, and with his whole heart. I ask that you seek him out and offer him the friendship I think you can provide. Our world wants pieces of him for its own glory – a fate I see etched on his face each time we meet. _

_Yes, he and I have met often for tea; on occasion he takes meals with me at the Manor. The conversation is carefully stilted away from either mention of you or your father. I know there is no love lost between him and Lucius, but I think it pains him that he could not exonerate you completely. Again, you are a subject he is reluctant to discuss, and I think there is more there than petty squabbling. Mother's intuition, I suppose._

_We learned a great deal about each other, and I discovered many surprising and interesting things. It will be up to your discussions with him to find out what. Tread lightly, as this is a man who has been manipulated, lied to, and played as a pawn his entire life. He needs something from you – something Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley cannot provide. They will forever be tied to him, but their perceptions of him are coming from inside. They cannot see from the outside in. I urge you to be earnest and forthright with him. If nothing else, please tell him one last time how grateful I am for bringing you back to me. _

_As I finish this letter, I see your hair, shining in the summer sunshine, ruffled by a warm, rose-scented breeze. I see your face tilted up, basking in the glory of the day, and happiness sparkling in your eyes. Do not lose this boy. My precious dragon, you have meant more to me in this world than anything else. I will treasure you always, and I hope one day that you can forgive me._

_Remember that you were loved by me and that you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that._

_Your mother, always,_

_Narcissa Black Malfoy_

Draco hauled in a deep, shuddering breath before sinking to his knees and sobbing.

000000

"—and that's what I plan to do." Harry looked into the faces of Ron and Hermione, their eyes wide and surprised. Naturally, Hermione was the first to recover.

"Harry, that—that's wonderful," she said, a little breathless. "Of course if you need anything, I'll be glad to help."

If he looked at it from the outside, it would look like nothing had changed between them, and they were back in the tent, planning and strategizing. If only that were the case.

"Blimey, mate," Ron said after a moment. He sat back and blew out a breath. "Are you sure? I mean, just…okay, then."

Hermione patted her husband's arm. "I think that's enough, Ron." She turned her attention back to Harry. "Have you given any thought on taking Draco to the Manor?"

Harry frowned. "What for? The Ministry's taken everything, there can't be anything left now."

She returned his frown with her patented 'you're missing the point', look. "Yes, the house is under Ministry control, but the grounds are still protected by blood wards. They'll open for him." She cut her eyes at him. "And for you as well."

"I'm not a Malfoy."

"As good as," Ron piped up. "He's your Consort, and that's a magic that's grounded in blood. Face it, when you and Malfoy shacked up together, you pretty much got married, and that makes you family. So the Malfoy wards have no choice but to accept you." He lowered his voice a fraction. "Not to mention the fact that you've actually got his blood in you."

Harry felt his hackles rise. "Is that a problem?"

Ron scoffed and waved his hand as if he didn't recognize the warning in Harry's tone. Either that, or he was ignoring it. "Merlin, no. I'll admit, of all people, I wouldn't have picked the Ferret for you, but Mum's absolutely nutty over him." He shrugged. "Doesn't seem to matter so much anymore, you know," he raised his fingers to make air quotes, "'Weasley', 'Potter', 'Malfoy'. We're sort of all the same now, aren't we?"

Hermione's gaze was soft and searching as she let Ron ramble, but she stayed quiet.

"I don't know about that, Ron." Harry's hand curled reflexively to ease the sudden tension that crept into his fingers.

"My point is that you should take him to see his mother," Hermione replied. "The tombs are considered part of the grounds and not the house, so you shouldn't have any problem taking him there."

Harry shrugged, not liking the guilty way her direct gaze made him feel. "If he wants to go and see her, I have no problem with that. I won't keep him from her."

It was effortless that after only a few hours they were back to their old habits, and Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Honestly, Harry. Put yourself in his place. He's been in prison, his father is dead, his mother killed herself, and he's tied himself to you. Now he's free and he has to put all of that into some sort of perspective. Do you think he wants to be alone to try and do that?" She shook her head. "He may not ask, or let on, but if it were you, wouldn't you want some support? For heaven's sake, the man needs some closure!"

She was right and he knew it. He didn't like it, but he knew it. Harry had to admit he'd grown very fond of Narcissa Malfoy, and when he heard what she had done, it had gutted him almost as much as he imagined it had Malfoy.

"Alright," he said. "I'll take him to see her."

"Good," she said, rising to her feet. Leaning over to press a kiss to the top of Ron's head, she smiled. "It's late. And I'm tired. You boys catch up."

Harry stood and she walked into his personal space without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him for a hug.

"I'm glad you came. We missed you. I hope that you and Draco will come for Sunday dinners more often. Molly was beside herself." She stepped back and placed a hand on his cheek. If the coolness of his skin was surprising to her, she didn't let on. He swallowed, waiting for some other reaction, but in the end, she was just Hermione. The same accepting, soft-eyed, tender sister he'd always wanted. The sister he'd come so close to leaving behind.

"Yeah, we'll see. Good night."

She left and shut the door behind her. He turned back to Ron, who was grinning like there was no tomorrow.

"What?"

Ron lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Nothing. S'good, that's all."

Harry sat back down, feeling suddenly out of place. He straightened, hoping to afford himself some distance from the situation, from being alone with Ron for the first time in a very long while. It tickled at the back of his mind that the awkwardness was one-sided, because Ron sat next to him like nothing untoward had ever happened. Like nothing in the past between them mattered.

"So?" Ron asked. "Other than the obvious addition of a pointy git into your life, how's things?"

Harry couldn't hold back the snort. "Peachy."

"Good, good."

God, the small talk was going to kill him. Again. So perhaps the best option was to leave it behind altogether.

"Did you mean that?" Harry asked. "About family? That we're all the same now?"

"Of course," Ron replied, not missing a beat. "Everyone's on board, well…maybe not Percy, but nobody cares what he thinks anyway. Arse."

He chuckled at that. "Ginny's name seemed to cause a bit of a stir," Harry added.

Ron's eyes went wide and excited at his sister's name, and he grinned. "Oh, mate, you missed it."

"What?"

"The row Ginny and Mum had earlier today about you and the Ferret. It was epic." Ron's eyes danced with amusement. "Epic."

Somehow, he supposed it was fitting. He and Ginny had been over a long time ago, but she still acted as though she continued to have a claim on him. "What happened?"

Ron became considerably more animated, fueled by his glee at divulging the tale. "It's like this—Mum was all in a tizzy about you and Draco, Merlin that feels weird to say, coming to dinner. She was at sixes and sevens, rushing us all about to make things perfect. And Ginny huffed and snarked off, saying how she couldn't believe we were all putting ourselves out for a Malfoy." He looked a little sheepish as he continued, "Mate, I tell you, she said some nasty things about the both of you, and went on about you flaunting your fangs and that this thing between you and him was disgusting and unnatural, and that we were all terrible for going along with it and not trying to make you see sense." Ron paused for a breath. "Anyway, Mum started yelling that Ginny needed to shut it, and that we wanted to do this for you, that we were family, and family supports each other. Well, then Ginny shoots her mouth off and said the only way you would be family was if you had married her."

Harry jerked as if shocked.

"I know!" Ron agreed, noting his surprise. "And then Mum said, I swear this is the best part, that Ginny had every right to be an obnoxious twat, but if she was going to start spouting shite like that, she could bloody well do it in her own flat, because she sure as hell wasn't going to do it here!" Ron's body was convulsing in gasped laughter. "And then, oh, Merlin, Mum grabbed her by the arm and chucked her out the front door without another word!" He collapsed back on the sofa, shaking his hands in the air. "Fuck, I think that was the single greatest thing I have ever seen in my life, and I watched you come back from the dead to kill old Where's-His-Nose!"

Harry laughed at the mental image of Molly shoving a shrieking Ginny out the front door. "She really called her an obnoxious twat?"

"Merlin, help me, yes." Ron's brow scrunched. "I didn't even know Mum knew that word. The fact that she does is strangely disturbing to me." He sighed and waved a hand at Harry. "Anyway, don't worry about her. She'll come back in a few days with her tail between her legs and apologize when she needs Mum to do her laundry or something. And I don't see why she's making such a fuss. She dating Oliver Wood now, isn't she? Shouldn't make a difference to her who you decide to take up with."

"You had an issue," Harry pointed out.

Ron rolled his eyes. "It's the Ferret. Of course I had an issue. Probably will still have a few more in the future. Wouldn't be us if we didn't."

"I suppose."

Ron reached out and gave him a playful punch to the arm. "Good to have you back, mate."

Harry's face drew tight. "I'm not the same as I was. You know that."

Ron snorted. "Nobody is. Not after what we went through. None of us are the same people."

"Not all of us tried to kill our best friend."

The ease melted from Ron's body as he sat forward to look Harry in the eye. "We've talked about this. I don't hold it against you. I won't. Not ever."

"How can you say that?" Harry hissed. "Because I would have, you know?" He glared at Ron, desperately wanting him to see the thing within so that he could understand. "I would have killed you."

"I know," Ron said quietly. "And I would have let you. And with my last breath, I would have forgiven you."

Harry's shoulders slumped, the thought of rage was just so tiring. "I don't see how you can feel that way. What kind of friend, what kind of brother am I, that would do that?" He turned his head away. "It's this thing," he spat. "It's made me into a monster."

"No."

Ron's hand came up to rest on his shoulder. "You're still Harry, underneath it all. And yes, you could have killed me. But can you honestly say that if the tables were turned, that you wouldn't feel the same way, if it were me?"

"What? Would I die for you?" Harry asked.

Ron's eyes asked him to answer his own question. And the answer was yes.

"You see, mate. Not so hard to understand after all. It's unconditional. Family. You can't ever do wrong by me. There is nothing so terrible that you could do to make me stop loving you. We're brothers. In every sense of the word."

Harry sunk into the couch cushions, rubbing his hands over his face. "Family. I guess Malfoy, too, then?"

Ron sighed, long and breathy. "You know you saved him, right? By taking him on as Consort."

Harry shook his head. "He had five years left. That's hardly saving him, Ron."

"You don't get it, do you?" he said, serving Harry with a solid stare. "I know it's been a couple of months since you've been around the Ministry, but you were an Auror, Harry. You know they had it in for Malfoy."

"They had it in for Death Eaters. I don't think they were too picky."

"That's where you're wrong," Ron said quietly. "I've been in on several conversations regarding Draco and a number of other high-ranking Death Eaters. Brought in to help 'solve the problem', as it were."

Harry went cold, and he couldn't help the low growl to his voice at the insinuation in Ron's words. "What do you mean?"

Ron rubbed a hand over his face. "I mean, he was never going to really be free. You why he was only tried on the one charge? Of letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts?"

"There was no other concrete evidence, and he didn't do anything anyway."

"There were other charges they could have brought. But they didn't. Why? Think about this, Harry. Really think about it. If they lumped them all together, the Ministry only gets one crack at him. Boom, he serves his time, and then they can't touch him. But, if they hold back, only prosecute and convict one charge at a time, then Malfoy's looking at a revolving Azkaban door for the rest of his life. He serves his seven years, he gets out, and if he even looks like he's stepping one aristocratic toe out of line, they haul him back in and pull out another charge. There's no statute on war crimes, and they're still holding Dumbledore's attempted murder and the torture charges for safekeeping. They've got scores of testimony and pensieve memories to corroborate. Even yours. Frankly, if he did get out, they wanted to give him enough grief that he'd just AK himself and save everyone the trouble."

The breath left Harry's lungs and he leaned forward on his knees. "Fuck."

"Look, it's last ditch. There's not a soul in the Ministry that wants to see Draco Malfoy walk free. And they'll do what they can to keep him shut away for as long as possible. The only way they wanted him to go home is when they laid him in the same tomb with his parents."

Harry's body felt colder than normal, thinking about what sort of life Draco would have been subjected to if he hadn't signed that damn contract. Maybe he had saved Draco. Maybe he hadn't, and Draco was just moving from one prison to another.

"Anyway," Ron said, sucking in a determined breath to rise to his feet, "I have a bone to pick with His Pointiness."

Harry followed him, wondering why he was suddenly glaring at the back of Ron's head.

000000

"Oi, Ferret! I got something to say to you!"

Draco's head snapped up at Weasley's shout, and he swiped the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the wetness that remained. He scrabbled to his feet and shoved the letter into his trouser pocket, walking out to meet Ron across the yard. Potter followed behind Weasley, and Draco was shocked to see the narrow, angry set of his eyes.

Ron stopped short in front of him, and before Draco could open his mouth to head Weasley off at the pass with a sharp reply, the ginger-haired Auror grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him into a fierce hug. It knocked the breath from Draco's lungs, and his arms came up to grab at Ron to steady himself.

"Thank you," he whispered in Draco's ear. "Thank you, Draco. So fucking much." There was a choked half-sob in there somewhere.

_Embrace the Weasleys and the rambunctious nature of their love._

His mother's words came back to him and he found himself wrapping his arms around Ron in return. "One Potter, as your wife requested. You're welcome, Weasel," Draco whispered back.

Ron's body shook as he chuckled, and Draco's gaze shot up to notice Potter had gone still. Moonlight passed over his face, and Draco saw the set of his jaw and the fierce emotion that danced over his skin and in his eyes. He knew that look, didn't need the bond to spell it out for him.

Jealousy. Possession.

Potter's fists flexed at his sides, and Draco knew he was fighting back the vampiric impulse to throw Ron away from him as far as possible. Potter knew it was a friendly hug, but the vampire was enraged at someone else touching what was his. No sense in causing him more discomfort.

"As manly as this is, Ronald, I think Potter would prefer it if you let go of me," Draco said loud enough for Potter to hear, keeping his gaze all the while.

Ron instantly stepped back and let him go. "Yeah, right." He turned to Potter with a sheepish grin, and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, Harry. Forgot myself for a second." He glanced back at Draco. "See you inside, Malfoy?"

Draco nodded as Ron turned and headed back inside. The tall Auror spared a fond smile for Potter as he passed. Potter's hands unclenched and he came forward with purpose. He was about to open mouth and offer a platitude of some sort, but Potter reached out with both hands to cradle Draco's face and draw him into a soft kiss. It was a firm, but yielding press of lips, and Draco's breath twisted in his lungs. Potter pulled back and dropped his hands to his sides, his face furrowed in consternation.

"What did you do that for?" Draco asked.

"I wanted to see if I could without the-" his eyes glanced at Draco's neck, "you know."

Draco seized Potter by the face and crushed their mouths together with force. Potter's body slid forward to press against him, and his mouth opened at the first hint of Draco's tongue. Draco licked his way inside on a rush of fire, swallowing Potter's groan of approval. His hands slid from Potter's cheeks to tangle in the ridiculous nest of his hair, threading his fingers through the thick, soft strands to clutch tightly and hold Potter close while he ravaged his mouth.

They were cemented together from mouth to groin, and Draco rubbed his lips across Potter's with a precision designed to destroy. Potter's tongue met his with equal fervor, seeking and tasting, mapping out every crevice it could reach. Draco sucked in a breath as his tongue slid along the underside of Potter's lip, grazing across the tip of one pointed fang. Potter shuddered, and clutched at him for more, but he ended it with a hard, deliberate press of closed mouths. As he pulled back, Potter whimpered and leaned forward, chasing after Draco's mouth.

Draco's hands fell to his sides and he smoothed a hand over Potter's chest. "So can you?"

Potter's eyes glittered in the darkness, his lips ruby red and slick. His chest rose and fell in a stuttered rhythm. "I think I can."

For the first time in ages, the trademark Malfoy smirk felt right on his lips. "Well, then. Lucky you."

Draco left Potter dazed in the moonlight, the blissful hum of self-satisfaction bubbling inside. He made it five steps before Potter's hushed whisper caught up to his ears.

"Yeah. Lucky me."

000000

A/N: The last line of Narcissa's letter is taken directly from the film, "Third Star". I would love to claim it for my own, but alas, it is not. If you haven't seen it, go now. Watch it.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco woke to the sound of screaming. He bolted out of bed and into the hallway, straight to Potter's door. He barreled inside, the anguished sounds louder than thunder. His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, and Potter was there on the bed, tangled in the sheets, flailing and twisting, as if caught in a Cruciatus.

"Potter!"

Nothing.

Draco ran to the bed and reached out a hand to shake him awake. "Potter! Wake up!"

The second his hand touched Potter's shoulder, Potter's eyes flew open and he snarled, grabbing Draco and flipping him over onto the bed. Potter slammed Draco into the mattress, straddling him with hard thighs, one hand wrapped around Draco's wrist, the other wrapped around his neck, pinning him down.

Potter's eyes were wide and feral, glazed over with an unnatural light. He was crazed, lost inside whatever nightmare that floated in his head. The hand around his neck squeezed with supernatural force, and the air rushed from Draco's lungs, burning and crackling in his chest.

Draco's free hand came up to push at Potter's face and neck, trying desperately to find purchase. Potter snapped at his fingers, slicing the tips of Draco's fingers. He hissed at the sting, and even the taste of Draco's blood on his lips didn't seem to spark any recognition. Potter was gone. This was the vampire, the thing he kept buried, the creature that only came out when Potter was too weak to hold it back.

He writhed and bucked, wanting to shove Potter to the side. It was no use. Potter was unbelievably strong, and Draco's efforts were for naught. The vampire pressed down on him with the weight of darkness and the pressure of a thousand stones, his punishing grip cutting off Draco's air supply.

What breath was left stuttered in his lungs, and stars began to dance behind Draco's eyes. He fought to gasp, curling his fingers into the sweaty stubble of Potter's cheek, clawing at his face, but Potter seemed no closer to relenting. Draco went cold. Potter had no intention of letting go until Draco was dead.

Draco's eyelashes fluttered and images from the past flickered in his brain. Through the fog, he lamented that this would be how it all ended, with so much left undone between them, and the sad realization that there could have been more. This was Potter's madness, Potter's insanity, and if was Potter wanted to damn Draco along with him, he would go, but fuck if he would do it without at least letting Potter know what he was throwing away.

Draco went still beneath him, managing his fear to slow his breathing to a deep and even cadence. The fingers that were digging into Potter's cheek flattened, and he began tap.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

It was as if someone opened a window in Potter's soul as Draco drummed out the beat of his heart on Potter's skin. His gaze focused and sharpened, green eyes glittering like dark stars, bright with recognition and surprise. Potter's brow rose and loosened the grip on Draco's neck. He gulped in sweet lungfuls of precious air, coughing to clear his chest. He stared at Potter, afraid to speak, lest he break the fragile reprieve he'd been granted. Potter's dumbstruck expression quickly moved to one of horror and he collapsed on top of Draco, burying his face in the crook of Draco's neck.

Potter's breath came in ragged whuffs of air, skating along the still-healing puncture wounds at his neck. They tingled under the warm, moist air, and Draco found himself craning his neck to expose more of it to Potter's face. He felt Potter nose at the marks, rubbing softly, like a cat leaving its scent. The sensation deepened, and his hand came up to thread through the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair at the nape of Potter's neck to press him closer.

Potter snorted out through his nose, releasing a grunted sigh, but made no move to bite. Draco swallowed, steeling his courage, and tightened his grip on Potter's hair. He pushed, forcing Potter's face into his skin.

And that was all the invitation Potter needed.

Potter's fangs bit down, sharp as always, but instead of the drugging pull, Potter's mouth was gentle. Something stung, and he realized it wasn't Potter's bite, but the salt of his tears that burned on the wound. The deep draws of before were gone, and this time Potter nuzzled Draco's flesh with soft, tender touches, suckling like a babe at the breast.

The warmth and the pleasure were still there, traveling through his body, and Draco relaxed, letting Potter drink his fill. He moved his hand from Potter's hair, threaded it underneath Potter's arm to wrap around his back, and let his legs fall open. Potter scooted between them, and Draco drew his legs up a fraction to trap Potter between his thighs, offering the only security he had to give. Potter melted into his body on a revelatory sigh, and the bite deepened.

Potter shifted restlessly on top of him, and Draco felt Potter's cock stir against his own. He pushed aside his growing desire in favor of Potter's comfort, Potter's need. His hand slid down Potter's back and beneath the waistband of his sleep pants to run his hand over the curve of Potter's muscled, bare arse. The gesture was welcomed with the teasing lick of Potter's tongue on his neck and Draco bit his lip to keep from crying out. He played there for a few moments, relishing the texture of Potter's bare skin, and the hard muscle beneath it, squeezing as if his palm could commit the feel to memory.

He could feel Potter's distress returning, and knew that the comfort of his blood wouldn't be enough to drive out the vampire's demons so easily. And while he wanted, because Merlin, yes, he _wanted_, it was Potter's pleasure he sought. Draco's hand journeyed around Potter's torso, sliding across the hard planes of his stomach, and Potter sucked in a harsh breath, no doubt realizing his destination. Draco let his fingers trail slowly, teasing with the pads of his fingers as they slid across sweat-slick skin that was tense with anticipation.

Draco's hand slipped between them, fumbling only a moment with the elastic of Potter's waistband before dipping lower to breach the nest of coarse hair at his groin. Potter shifted, easing up a little to allow Draco's hand more room to maneuver, and Draco's hand took the opening to wrap his hand around the base of Potter's cock.

It was hard and hot in his hand, and the fact that it was attached to Potter made it all the more perfect. He stroked once firmly, bringing his hand down the shaft to swipe the pad of his thumb across the damp head. Potter bucked against him as if struck by lightning, and whimpered brokenly into the bite. The hand around his left wrist opened and Potter's palm slid into his, tangling their fingers together. Draco closed his eyes and tightened the hold, gasping as Potter's forearm came to lay flat against the Dark Mark. He hissed, not from any sensation from the mark itself (that had long been done away with), but of what the melding of their skin represented.

Draco increased the pace of his stroke, sliding up and down Potter's cock, catching the moisture that pooled at the crown to lubricate each pass of his hand. Potter moaned roughly now, moving his hips to thrust wantonly into Draco's hand.

"Please-"he panted, lifting his head from Draco's neck. "Please-I need…It feels-"

Draco hooked his heels around the backs of Potter's knees, drawing them closer. "Shh," he whispered. "I've got you." Potter's needy whine vibrated through his chest and Draco swore he could feel it stabbing straight into his heart. His mouth found Potter's ear to murmur soft words of comfort and encouragement, as he brought Potter closer to the edge.

His heart pounded in his ears, but inside, he felt strangely calm. Not distanced, certainly not, because his body thrummed with desire just as much as Potter's, but it seemed as the though the serenity stemmed from a place far beyond himself. He wondered how much of it was a consequence of the bond or, a more disturbing option, if it was his own desire to see Potter whole. Because Potter was breaking apart on top of him with ragged cries and jerky movements that suggested he was coherent of nothing but the blind sensation passing through his body. It was an awkward angle, Potter was heavier than the dickens, and his wrist was beginning to cramp something awful. It didn't matter. It was perfect. Draco worked him harder, loving the feel of having Potter in his hand at last, in a way that was so different from ages before.

But Potter must have had a few neurons firing in the right direction to recognize who was at the other end of the taut string of pleasure, because his mouth crashed down onto Draco's, panting his name into Draco's open mouth as he came in pulses of wet, slick heat.

Draco's hand slowed, drawing out Potter's orgasm, teasing him through the aftershocks. Potter twitched with a groan and rolled to the side, dislodging Draco's hand. Heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, and Draco felt his skin prickle with the familiar tingle of a Scourgify, even though Potter hadn't said a word.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and Draco swore he could detect the faint undertones of his own capitulation in the air. Potter snuffled beside him, but he couldn't bring himself to look back.

"What were you dreaming about?" Potter said nothing, and Draco was almost resigned to the fact that Potter wasn't going to say anything, when he did.

"Fiendfyre," Potter uttered on a grunt. "Lost you."

That admission hit him like a Bludger to the chest and Draco rolled, setting his feet on the floor and placing his head in his hands. It was a dream he knew well, after all, he'd had it often enough over the years. Somehow he didn't thing it meant the same thing to Potter. "You should sleep. I'll let you rest in peace," he murmured from between his fingers.

Draco moved to rise from the bed when Potter's quicksilver reflexes kicked in. A hand shot out to grab him by the wrist, fingers digging into the tendons with enough pressure to halt his movement, but not hurt.

"Stay." The rough-hewn voice was sleepy, a command bordering on the edge of a plea.

He should go. Should run for the safety of his own bed, his own nightmares. But instead, he allowed himself to be pulled back. Draco laid his head on the pillow, facing out into the darkness of the room. Potter's arm snaked over his waist and dragged him back until their bodies aligned. He tensed, and Potter tensed behind him in response. Seconds ticked by and neither moved, until he felt the creep of Potter's palm sliding up his chest to splay wide open, letting the whole of his hand cover Draco's heart. It pressed down hard, not moving, as if any minute Potter was going to curl those fingers and rip out the very heart of him. White noise filtered into his brain, and he realized he couldn't hear his own heartbeat over the sound.

_Maybe he already has. _

Draco relaxed and Potter shifted to get comfortable, rustling and wiggling like an animal burrowing in its nest. A knee thrust its way between Draco's thighs, and Potter's leg wound around his ankles, hooking them together from head to toe.

Warm breath fluttered over his ear, and the sharp rise and fall of Potter's breathing had evened out. Potter murmured, so soft he almost missed it.

"It doesn't mean anything. This changes nothing."

Draco closed his eyes and turned his face into the pillow, trying to squelch down the sting he shouldn't feel from words he wanted to believe. But deep down, he knew it was futile.

_You're a fool, Harry Potter. This changes everything._


	14. Chapter 14

Draco awoke to tangle of sheets and the flood of lamplight in the room. Potter was nowhere to be found, but the sound of raised voices carried up from downstairs. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled down the stairs to see what the hell Potter was up to now.

He paused at the landing as the conversation began to come into focus.

"No," Potter said firmly. "You knew what my answer would be, so I don't know why you insisted on coming here, Silvestri."

"If you would take a moment to look at this from all sides, Harry—"

"I said no."

"I realize the Ministry has you on a short leash, but the Council could be persuaded—" Draco's footfalls creaked on the staircase, causing both men below to look up. It was the vampire from before, the one present at Azkaban. Draco continued down the stairs, stopping just short of Potter. His gaze raked over Draco with a dangerous gleam of interest that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"And what a pretty leash it is," Silvestri finished.

"Silvestri," Potter warned. "Go back to your coven. By my good graces, I allowed you to come in and have your say, but I am no longer feeling hospitable."

"You're making a mistake here, Harry. I am not often inclined to indulge you, but with such a treasure in your grasp, how could I not alter the terms of my offer?" Silvestri continued his silent perusal of Draco. "He is beautiful—"

The vampire moved towards Draco a fraction and Potter snapped into action, stepping in front of him. Potter's eyes were transfixed on the other vampire, not sparing a glance for Draco. His hand shot out behind him, and Draco felt a Shield charm rise in front of him like a wall.

Wordless. Wandless. Effortless.

Draco's mouth went dry. Fuck, Potter was powerful.

"Enough!" Potter roared. "Don't take another fucking step. You don't touch him. You don't look at him. You don't come near him. He is mine."

Behind the charm, Draco's eyebrows rose, but he remained silent, too interested in watching the confrontation unfold to be bothered by Potter's vehement statement of possession.

"Harry—" Silvestri's voice was like silk.

"Listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once. Draco is mine. And there's not a fucking thing the Council or the Ministry can do to change that. And if you go against me, I can guarantee you won't like the repercussions."

Silvestri smiled with the self-importance of a man with the upper hand. "And how far do you think you'll get with the Ministry's chains wrapped around your neck?"

Potter's back tensed with all the poise of snake ready to strike. "Push me, and you'll see how far those chains will extend. I daresay they'll be long enough for me to rip out your throat."

"Harry, Harry. Talk like that only encourages me to try."

"Do it and I'll come for you with Hell on my heels. There won't be enough ash left for your darklings to scrape together. Now get the fuck out of my house before I forget my manners."

Silvestri chuckled before turning to Draco and offering a formal bow. He said nothing, and disappeared out the front door with a whisper of his black cloak.

Potter waited, staring at the door until the wards rippled, and then he turned back to Draco and waved his hand, dispelling the charm. Before Draco could open his mouth to speak, Potter was in his face.

"Don't worry about him," Potter said.

"I wasn't—"

"He can't hurt you. I won't let him." The light in Potter's eyes flashed. "I protect what is mine, Draco."

There was something in that statement that begged the question, "Protect me from what?", but the doors in Potter's face slammed shut, leaving behind an inscrutable mask. Even if he had asked, he knew he wouldn't get a straight answer.

"Kreacher's left you breakfast. You should eat."

Draco nodded, a bit dazed by it all, and went to the kitchen. Potter followed on his heels and sat down across from him, his stare never wavering. It was obvious Potter wasn't going to relent until he ate something, as if Draco's nourishment was suddenly Potter's most important task in the world. Tea and toast was all he could manage under Potter's scrutiny, and he slugged back the last of his tea—bless Kreacher for a decent cup of Earl Grey—and pushed his plate forward.

"Come on," Potter said suddenly. "I've got something upstairs I want to show you."

Draco followed him up the stairs and into the first room just off the landing.

"This is Walburga's study. I'm going to be redoing this room, and there are some things in here I thought you might want, considering some of them are probably Black family heirlooms."

Draco walked in and ran his hand across the large desk against the wall, taking a look at the bookshelves that lined the room. A plush velvet settee sat toward the middle of the room on top of a large, well-worn rug. In the corner, a curtained portrait sat on an easel, surrounded by glass-fronted curio cabinets. A fireplace banked the far wall, with a great oak mantle over the top, flanked by picture frames and an intricately carved wooden box.

"What are you doing in here?" Draco asked, his eyes scanning the room.

"That's not your concern. See if there's anything here you want before I get rid of it all."

His gaze flicked back to Potter, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest in a measure of impatience. Draco's eyes caught the attention of a small frame on the desk and when he went over for a better look, he gasped in surprise. Potter was by his side in an instant.

"What is it?"

Draco held out the frame for him to see. "It's my mother and her sisters."

The wizarding picture showed a young Narcissa, smiling out into the world, her face light and carefree. Two other young women were in the photo with her, wearing similar happy expressions. They held their pose, and then fidgeted, finally erupting into peals of shared laughter.

"Is that-?"

"Andromeda and Bellatrix," Draco supplied. "Long before anything, I think." He sucked in a breath. "God, she looks happy. And Aunt Bella…she looks positively—"

"Sane?" Potter finished.

Draco couldn't bring himself to laugh. "Yeah."

"Then keep it," Potter said. "It should be yours." He turned and went to the box over the mantle, opening it to retrieve something. "Along with this." Potter faced him and Draco thought his knees might buckle. "Ten inches. Hawthorn. Unicorn hair core. Right?"

Potter held out his wand as calmly as if he'd offered Draco a cup of tea. Shaking hands placed the photograph on the desk and he walked with slow steps toward Potter. He shook out his hand and flexed his fingers to steady them before reaching for the wand. Potter pulled it back, the tease, and offered him a sly smile.

"If you attempt to Crucio me with it again, I'll be very disappointed."

Draco's hand came up to rub absently at his chest in response. Potter noticed the gesture and stepped forward, taking Draco's hand. His fingers were light and cool, and Potter's thumb rubbed over his flesh almost like a caress as he turned it over and placed the wand in his palm. Magic tingled on his skin, and told himself it was the wand recognizing him after all this time. It certainly couldn't be from Potter's touch.

Draco's voice faltered. "I think we do our bleeding in a different manner now, don't we?"

Potter was silent, his face guarded.

"You said this was Walburga's study?" Draco asked, determined to steer the conversation to less serious subjects.

"Yes," he replied, walking over to the easel. "Come say hi." He pulled the curtains back from the portrait and his great aunt's eyes widened, startled by the sudden revelation. She was as formidable as ever, her mouth pursed in a tight line.

Remembering his upbringing, Draco bowed formally from the waist. "Great Aunt Walburga. A pleasure."

Her mouth twitched, but she said nothing. Draco's brow furrowed in confusion. He always remembered her to be extremely outspoken.

"Oh, right. Yeah…here," Potter said quickly, waving a hand in front of the portrait. His eyes narrowed on her and he warned, "Be nice, Walburga." She cast a nervous glance at Potter before looking back to Draco.

"You're Narcissa's boy, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes, madame. I'm Draco."

She shot one more glare at Potter, took a deep breath and shouted, "Get out! Run while you can! Flee the monster and his den of iniquity! He defiles—"

Potter's hand waved again with a frown and her mouth sealed shut, cutting off the rest of her rant. Walburga fixed Potter with a deadly glare, which he returned. "Hateful cunt," he snapped, before yanking the curtains closed. "Can't even be civil when asked."

Draco's lips twitched in a smile. "'Den of iniquity'? Merlin, Potter, what are you getting up to?"

"She was alright for a while, and we had sort of a truce going. But then I was Turned, and she became downright nasty." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Should've known better I guess. But she pissed me off one too many times, so I shut her up for good."

"What did you do?"

Potter's smile was smug as he lifted a shoulder. "Spelled her mouth shut, went out and picked up two blokes from a muggle club, brought them home, and made her watch while I fucked them both six ways from Sunday right there on her favorite settee."

Draco laughed. "You absolute deviant."

"Yes," Potter sniffed in remembrance. "It was an extremely gratifying evening." He shot the portrait a hard glance. "In more ways than one."

Draco picked up the photo and clutched it to his chest. "This is all I want. I don't care what you do with the rest."

"Good. Now, get dressed. And bring a coat. We're going out, and it's cold. I'll be ready to leave whenever you are."

He took a moment to look over Potter. He was dressed in his usual muggle wear. A pair of well-worn denims ripped out at the knees, a pair of scuffed trainers, and a faded t-shirt proclaiming something called 'Van Halen'.

"What about you? Don't you need a coat?"

Potter stepped closer into Draco's personal space, and his demeanor went from tense to relaxed. "What would I need that for?" he said smoothly. "It's your job to keep me warm."

He rankled at Potter's statement, and wanted to snark back that he was much more than a possession, but the twinkle in Potter's eye made it impossible to tell if he was teasing or being serious.

"Go on. Bedroom."

The low timbre of Potter's voice skated over him and suddenly he was assaulted with visions of all the things Potter could do to him in that bedroom. Oddly enough, getting dressed didn't even make the list. He tried for light, hoping to diffuse his brain's musings.

"First you put a wand in my hand, and now you're taking me to the bedroom? Goodness, Potter. All this romance will make me swoon." Potter rolled his eyes, and Draco leaned with a conspiratorial whisper. "I would've let you have me on the settee. And let Walburga watch."

Potter's eyes darkened, and for a second, Draco thought he'd made a calculated error. But Potter brought their faces together, lips so close they almost touched, and his fingers came up to brush the back of his cheek. "Oh, Draco," he murmured, and damn if Draco didn't have to bite his lip to keep from shivering. "I think we both know I could have you anywhere I wanted to. Walburga be damned." This time he did shiver, but not because of Potter's proximity. But because Draco knew Potter was right. Potter turned him around and pushed him toward the door as Draco's breath caught in his throat. "Go on, now. I'm waiting."

He managed to compose himself enough to head to the door without falling and glanced back over his shoulder. "You're not fooling me, Potter. You just want to ogle my arse as I walk out the door."

Part him wanted Potter to splutter in denial, or blush, or stammer, or anything that would prove Draco could still throw Potter for a loop. But after Potter's admission, and the damning aura of truth that rang in his words, he knew it wasn't happening.

And it was Draco's turn to splutter as Potter's smile slid across his face when he replied with a cheery, "Yes."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thanks for your patience. Sorry I haven't posted, as there's been a family summer vacation and a real-life job that's taken my time. If you've stayed around this long, I thank you. And all comments and reviews are not only welcomed, but encouraged. *hint hint* Hopefully, I shall be publishing more to this story soon. I just hope you all still want to read it!

Draco slipped on the long overcoat as he came down the stairs to meet Potter in the living room. He stopped short as Potter's eyes widened. "What?"

"You're a bit…overdressed, aren't you?" Potter replied.

"Well, since you haven't told me where we're going, I thought it better to err on the side of caution. Mother always said one should dress as one intends to behave." Draco smirked. "Malfoys always behave with dignity. And therefore, I am dressed respectably." He wrapped the green scarf in his other hand around his neck. Potter's eyes latched onto it like a Seeker after the snitch.

"Lose the scarf, Draco."

Something in Potter's tone had him unwinding the fabric and letting it hang from his hand. Potter's gaze lingered on his neck. Draco frowned as he realized how much of his neck was still exposed, even under the collar of his shirt. "Do you want me to freeze, Potter?"

Potter's face gave nothing away as he moved closer, coming to stand uncomfortably close. His green eyes flicked down to Draco's neck and he replied in a low, sultry tone, "Maybe I just like looking at it."

Draco snorted. "You would."

Suddenly, Potter's face was in his neck, breathing out over the bite mark and making it tingle, before the flat of his tongue licked a long, slow stripe over it, trailing up Draco's neck to just under his ear.

The scarf clenched in his hand dropped to the floor without ceremony. Potter's voice was husky as he whispered, "I do."

Draco blinked twice and opened his mouth to say something, even though he had no idea what, because, really, what could you say to that? But Potter Apparated them with a pop before his mouth clicked shut.

As soon as he stood upright, Draco knew exactly where he was, and the breath left his body as he stared at Malfoy Manor, bathed in the distance underneath the soft shadows of moonlight.

"Why-why are we here?" Draco's voice trembled.

Potter's hold on his arm tightened. "I-well, Hermione thought you might like to see your parents. Your mother, specifically."

He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would."

"Shall we?"

The wards rippled as they walked into the boundary of the property, the familiar magic thrumming over Draco's skin in a long, forgotten way. It pulsed the same as Potter passed through.

"I suppose we really are family, now," Draco said. "The wards recognize you."

"Of course they would. We're practically married, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if the Ministry has formally changed your name to 'Malfoy-Potter' or some such nonsense."

Draco tsked. "An inglorious end to the Malfoy line if ever there was. And here I have nothing to show for our matrimonial bliss other than a nasty cut on my neck."

Potter leaned in and whispered against his lips, "And would you wear my ring if I offered you one?"

Draco's lashes fluttered and his tongue swiped out to moisten his dry lips. "Perhaps," he replied softly. "If it was tasteful. But knowing you, you'd give me something horrific and I'd have to take it just to be nice."

"Careful, Draco. I might start to think you wear your heart on your sleeve."

Draco snorted. "No, I wear a Mark on my arm. There isn't room for anything else. However, a trinket wouldn't go amiss. After all, nothing says 'I'm chuffed to have you as my sole food source' like an expensive piece of jewelry."

Potter pulled him close and buried his nose in Draco's hair, inhaling deeply. "I'll take that under advisement," he said as his arms began to wind around Draco's waist. Draco patted him away with a huff.

"My goodness, you're clingy this evening," Draco teased. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your visitor earlier, would it? Because if you're going to get handsy every time someone you don't like pops round-" Potter stopped in his tracks and pulled Draco sharply around to face him, cutting off his words.

"I told you not to worry about him."

Draco yanked his arm from Potter's steely grip, snapping, "I wasn't worried about him." He let the _I was worried about you_ die before it could grace the open air, not ready to admit to emotions that he didn't understand himself. "Who was that?" he asked quickly, hoping it would cover his pause.

"The self-styling leader of the Vampire Council. Silvestri," Potter answered.

"Silvestri who?"

Potter sighed. "Just Silvestri. You know, like Madonna, or Sting."

Draco's brow furrowed in irritation. "Are they vampires, too?"

The eye roll was downright insulting. "Christ, you're going to need more than a phrase book."

"I thought the Council was headed by a quorum? How can he be their leader? And why was he so insistent? And why don't you like him?" Draco's mouth ran away with him, spouting off the rapid fire questions with barely a breath in between.

"I don't like him because he's dangerous, presumptuous, and frankly, he's a giant arsehole."

Draco's eyebrow rose. "So, what did he want with you, then? I'm guessing this wasn't the first time you had that particular conversation."

Potter shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No, it isn't."

"Well, what did he want, then?"

"The same thing he wants every time he insinuates himself into my presence: me. He wants me," Potter said simply. "As a lover. As a vessel for his ambition. He wants my power and notoriety, thinking it would further his own goals. He's a manipulative bastard who plays nice with the Ministry because it suits him to do so, and worms his way around the Council because of it."

"And you refused him?"

"Of course I refused him," Potter spat. "I've spent my whole life being at the mercy of other people's prophecies and decisions. I'm done with that. Whatever I am now, I am my own. Silvestri wants me by his side and under his thumb. Two places I have no desire to be. It's been that way from the beginning. I told him that straight off. And when he realized I wouldn't do what he wanted, he cast me out. He told the Ministry I had refused him, of course not giving them all the facts, and because he has such control of the Council, no one there would dare go against anything he said. Basically, it boils down to the petulant whinging of an arrogant man who didn't get everything he wanted." Potter's lips quirked. "It seems I'm destined to be saddled with those forever."

Draco glared at him in response. "Yes, it must be _so_ terrible to be wanted to the point of violence."

Potter cocked his head to the side, and penetrating green eyes stared at him with a focus that Draco was rapidly considering to be unnerving. "I don't know, is it?"

All the moisture in Draco's mouth receded, leaving him faltering for speech, but Potter leaned in and spoke, mercifully removing the burden of needing to form a cogent reply.

"If you're wondering if I would kill for you, the answer is yes. I've done it before. I told you once, I protect what is mine. And I will kill to do it." He spoke with such marked calm, with such impassioned truth, that Draco's heart hammered in his chest so wildly it was a wonder it didn't burst forth to fall at his feet. Potter's gaze fluttered over him and the vampire took a step back, running a hand through the dark locks of his hair in an adroit move of fingers, effectively breaking the tension his words had created between them. Green eyes found Draco's again, this time they were softer, but not the least bit apologetic. "Like I said, Silvestri is nothing to worry about. Come on, let's go."

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked along in silence. Moonlight hung from overhead, lighting the pathway toward the Manor, and their steps fell in sync as they continued on. Several yards ahead, the path forked and Draco pointed.

"This way. The family mortuary is in a clearing off to the left of the Manor."

Potter nodded beside him. "I know. I've been here before. Twice, in fact."

Draco stopped short and turned to face him. "When? I mean, I know you've been inside the Manor, but the rest of the grounds?"

Potter blinked owlishly and his hand came up to scratch absently behind his neck. "I attended their funerals."

The breath stuttered in Draco's lungs. "What? Why?"

"It was the right thing to do."

He said it with a casual nonchalance that Draco could only stare at him in wonder. As if there was nothing at all strange about The Chosen One attending the funerals of notorious Death Eaters.

"But—but, you hated my father. Why would you go to his funeral?" Draco sputtered.

Potter smiled in a half-hearted fashion, and his arm curled into Draco's as he urged them to begin moving. "It's true I hated your father," he started, "but he was more than just a Death Eater, no matter how the Ministry felt. He was a husband, and a father, and he left behind people who loved him despite his terrible actions. That deserved a modicum of respect in my book."

Draco bit out a broken laugh. "Respect? That's rich."

"I respected him for your mother," Potter said smoothly, and the weight of the statement made Draco feel a little guilty for not thinking of that himself. By her own hand, she had revealed how much Potter had meant to her. "And for you," he finished. "I came because I knew Narcissa would have wanted you there by her side, and since that wasn't possible, I came in your stead. I was a poor stand-in, I'm sure, but I think she appreciated it all the same." He smiled wistfully. "She hugged me. In front of the officiant and Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Really?"

"And couldn't give two shits about either, I might add."

Draco's lips curved into a wry chuckle. "No, if she was bold enough to do that, then no, she wouldn't have cared who was watching." The image of his mother, holding onto Potter made something in his chest twist with a bittersweet ache. He shook his head, and then frowned. "Shacklebolt came? I think he hated my father even more than you."

Potter threw back his head and laughed. "I think the only reason he came was to make sure Lucius was well and truly dead."

Draco shared in Potter's laughter. "I think you're probably right." He relaxed and searched Potter's eyes with his own. "Thank you. For going with her. And for being there for her as well."

Potter sucked in a slow breath. "Well, I wasn't alone when I came for your mother. Hermione and Ron came with me. Molly and Arthur Weasley as well." He smiled at Draco, softly, and pulled him a bit closer. "She had friends at the end."

Draco stopped and turned into Potter's body. No warmth radiated from the vampire, and he supposed it was odd that it didn't bother him all that much. Potter's coldness was different from the chill in the air, which was bracing and harsh. Potter was cool like a sea breeze on a hot day, refreshing and light, with all the power to restore and invigorate. It wasn't the oppressive frost of winter, but the fresh gust of early spring winds that coaxed flowers into bloom and life to be reborn.

"I'm glad of it," Draco replied.

Potter stared down at him with eyes that had grown darker in color. The bright emerald deepened to almost black and swirled with a fire and ferocity that beckoned Draco to their depths. Inexorably, their faces grew closer and Draco was sure that Potter was about to kiss him savagely when a familiar, but unplaceable scent drew his attention.

"What are those?" he asked, drawing away from Potter to turn to the mortuary. Draco's eyes widened and he inhaled sharply at the abundant flowering plants. Outside the huge stone edifice, a ring of blooming white flowers stood sentry, their scent permeating the air.

"Those are Narcissus 'Rose of May' daffodils," Potter murmured over his shoulder. I know your mother was fond of roses, but these reminded me of her. I hope you don't mind."

He turned back to Potter, bewildered. "You—you planted these?"

"Neville helped me find the flowers, but I charmed them to be everlasting. No matter the season, the weather, these flowers will bloom like this forever. I thought it would be a nice tribute to her memory."

Emotion welled inside Draco, thick and rich like cream, that he couldn't help but turn his face into Potter's neck and wrap his arms around him. The vampire hands slid around his back and returned the embrace. Warmth pooled from somewhere in the vicinity of Draco's heart and spread out along his body. Who knew that it would take flowers to completely unman a Malfoy? Draco pulled back and blinked away the burgeoning wetness at his lashes.

"You can take cuttings too, although they won't be everlasting. In case you wanted to bring some blooms home. The plants will recover." Potter's voice was soft and entreating, but the darkness in his eyes still remained, lurking in the background. Draco shook it off and turned, heading around the front of the structure to the entrance.

He came to a stop, eyeing the stone door with trepidation. Potter was a shadow behind him. "Go on, what are you waiting for?" he asked.

Draco held his left hand, palm up, for Potter. "The crypt has more complex warding. It requires fresh blood." He wiggled his fingers. "If you could, please?"

He didn't look over his shoulder as Potter pulled his hand to his mouth, grazing his fangs along Draco's palm. The sting was sudden, but Potter didn't linger, even though Draco felt him stiffen at the first rush of his blood through the cut. Draco pressed his bloody palm to the Malfoy crest carved at the side of the door. The ancient magic swirled and buzzed around them as the door groaned open with the friction of stone on stone.

Torches flared to life as Draco walked inside, the magic recognizing and accommodating the bloodline. Inside, the crypt spread out endlessly, a marvel of Wizarding space, and Draco walked quietly down the open row toward the back.

"They'll be back this way. The oldest of the Malfoys are at the front."

Potter didn't reply, but the shuffle of his trainers on the stone floor let Draco know he wasn't far behind. He walked on, past the tombs of his ancestors, until his feet came to rest at the one place that held more disappointment than sorrow. His father's name was carved smoothly into the stone, as clean and cold as Lucius Malfoy had been when he was alive. His left hand clenched into a tight fist, stinging as the action caused more blood to drip from between his fingers. He paid it little mind, instead running his right hand across the stone with trepidation.

"I'm sorry, Father," he whispered. "I'm sorry I could never be the perfect son you expected. I'm sorry that I could never live up to what you wanted from me. I suppose if you knew the reason why I could never be that man, then you would understand why I failed so miserably at every turn. I guess if you had that probably would have killed you long before Azkaban ever could." He exhaled, breathing out the weight of his admission into the stale air of the crypt. "I had long given up on trying to make you proud of me. All I ever wanted was to be loved for what I was, not for what you thought I should be. I hope now you have found peace. Because at the end, that's all I really wanted for you."

Draco turned, feeling the release of emotions long tethered to his heart break free. It was all he could say, because with those words, he had nothing left for his father. Drops of crimson trailed after him as he approached his mother's tomb, and if he heard Potter's swift intake of breath, it didn't register as his eyes rested on the carving of his mother's name. This time, his right hand held nothing back, and he caressed the stone lovingly, as her own hand would have stroked through his hair when he was a child.

"I'm here, Mother. I read your letter, and I know now why you chose this for yourself. I won't pretend to not be hurt, because your loss means as much to me as mine did to you. But I understand." His left hand ached, both from the free-flowing cut that poured blood onto the stone floor and from the tight clench of his fingers, but he couldn't be bothered now to heal it. The wound to his heart was more important. "I understand, and I will never hold your choice against you, nor will I ever hear you disgraced because of it. You were the strongest woman I knew, yet also the most gentle, the most loving. That is what I will remember about you. That in dark times, you bent for no one, not Father, not even the Dark Lord, when you defied them all in saving Potter." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cold granite and whispered, "I forgive you."

His left hand throbbed, warm and sticky, and he heard Potter's strangled whimper behind him. Draco turned, broken from his declaration by Potter's sudden proximity. Potter's face was wild and feral, and the swirling darkness he had seen earlier in those eyes had widened, their focus trained on Draco's bloody hand. It was mesmerizing, the intent in Potter's eyes, and Draco brought his hand up without thought. Something warm and fuzzy tingled over him, calling him closer to Potter, pulling him in and draining away his will. Potter's hand snatched his wrist and his tongue came out to lap at the blood in his palm. It was soothing and stimulating all at once, and Potter's lips whispered against his skin, sealing the cut wordlessly.

He was so caught up in the feeling around him, so different than magic, so much darker and ever more promising. Draco's almost didn't recognize Potter's features as they shifted, the skin smoothing out over the planes of his face, blossoming with an inner light that made him seem to glow from within. He lost all sense of space and time as Potter moaned softly into the air between them. It was hypnotic and unavoidable, and he found himself pressed into Potter's body. The vampire's erection was hard between them, cradled in the juncture of Draco's hips as his body welcomed Potter's. The soft gasp that escaped him must have sounded like consent, because the moment it left his lips, Potter invaded.

Potter was on him, all lips and tongue, and his hands wasted no time, seeking skin through the layers of his clothing. The cloth of his shirt rent under Potter's greedy fingers as he ripped the fabric away to lay hands on Draco's torso. Draco groaned, lost and drowning, into Potter's mouth as rough hands moved lower, reaching for the flies of his trousers. Draco grunted as he was propelled back by the force of Potter's kiss, and the moment his lower back touched stone, the horror of their location reared up and screamed in his brain.

"No!" he hissed, shoving Potter back.

Potter stumbled as Draco's spine stiffened and he drew himself to full height.

"What?" Potter panted.

"Don't ask me 'what'!" he shouted as the fog around his brain cleared. "How would you like it if I accosted you in a moment of grief and attempted to bugger you over your mother's headstone?"

Potter couldn't have jerked back any harder if Draco had punched him in the face, and he took every scrap of pleasure he could at seeing Potter falter.

"Draco, I—"

It was too late. His rage condensed to a singular focus, and his tongue sharpened in that old familiar Malfoy way. "I realize that you lost every scrap of decency when your sire sucked out your humanity as well as your soul. And apparently we've established that you think you can have me when and wherever your deviant need arises." Anger seeped into his tone, bitter spite leeching into his words with every enunciated syllable. "I know you haven't got any respect for me, after all, I'm just a possession to you, aren't I? But you could at least have some for her. Have you no shame at all? She loved, you, you bastard!" Draco hissed. "And this is how you repay her affections? By trying to fuck me on top of her corpse?"

Regret and shame fell heavy on Potter's shoulders, and he stepped back further, as if distance would mitigate Draco's ire.

Draco closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Get out. I can't stomach the sight of you right now. And you don't deserve to be in the same room with her."

Potter slunk to the door with all the grace of a kicked Crup. He paused at the doorway and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. "I'll leave you in peace, then."

He heard Potter's footsteps retreat and slid down the side of the sarcophagus to the floor. Tears welled from a spring he thought long dry and he whispered into the air.

"Oh, Mother. What in the hell have I gotten myself into?"


	16. Chapter 16

As soon as his feet touched the floor, Draco jerked himself out of Potter's Apparition hold, putting distance between them. He pulled off his coat with quick, violent movements, not sparing it a glance as he tossed it over the back of the sofa. Potter moved to take a step, mouth open, but Draco stopped him with a raised finger.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "You don't get to speak to me. Not yet. Not while I'm within a breath of cursing you if I hear your voice." Draco's eyes flashed dangerously, and Potter eased back, waiting silently. Draco lowered his finger and paced the floor with sharp, pointed steps, keeping his narrowed gaze on the vampire. "Two years, Potter. Two fucking years I sat in Azkaban, and in that time I lost everything I once held precious. I would have waited a lifetime if it meant I could see her again, one last time." A dry chuckle escaped his throat. "So Christmas comes early, and I think that I what I wanted most was right in my grasp. A chance to see my mother again, even if it would be whispered words over her dead body. A chance to say the things I never got to, a chance to make peace with our sins." He stopped, turning his body to face the vampire. "You took that from me. Led me to it like a lamb to slaughter and then snatched it from me like a damned Snitch." His voice dropped. "I don't know if I can forgive you for that."

Potter's face curdled, still heavy with remorse. Draco knew there were a multitude of pleas waiting inside that fanged mouth, but he was in no mood to let them be heard. His ire was far too great. Perhaps in days to come, it might cool, might abate enough to where his heart would entertain the possibility of accepting Potter's mea culpa, but certainly not now. Not while his heart beat with so much anger.

The skin drew tight across Potter's face as he swallowed, and his eyes were hollow pools, empty under Draco's verbal assault. He stepped closer to the vampire, letting his gaze rake across the planes of the vampire's face, taking in the stiff set of his shoulders, the clenched fists at his sides, and the tight bunch of his thighs as they stood locked to keep him in place. Potter pulled in a sharp breath, and Draco wanted to laugh.

"Merlin, you still want it, don't you?" he sneered. "I won't deny you. After all, I made a promise I intend to keep. But you will learn that there is a time and a place for everything. I can make this more trouble than it's worth for you. I suppose that's the only real leverage I have." Potter's eyes narrowed but he stayed silent. "You'll understand if I use that to my advantage." He lifted his chin, watching the fire return to Potter's green eyes as his neck was bared for the vampire's view. "Go on, then," he sniffed. "You want it. Take it."

Potter snagged him by the back of the neck and jerked him forward, sinking his fangs into Draco's neck. The vampire's rough groan of approval vibrated through him and into Draco's bones. He resisted the initial urge to surrender and go pliantly into Potter's rough hold. The last vestiges of his anger still thrummed in his blood, unwilling to acquiesce so easily. His hands grasped at Potter's shoulders, anchoring them both where they stood. The pull at his neck softened, as if a gentler touch might be an apology, but the hard erection that jammed into his groin offered no such penitence. Part of him thought it would serve Potter right if he left him with no release, but the other part, the Malfoy that had resurfaced had other ideas.

Draco shoved his right hand down the front of Potter's jeans and grabbed hold of his cock with a forceful squeeze. Potter moaned, arching into Draco's hand with a jolt of his hips. Draco closed his eyes and tilted his head further, giving the vampire better access. He let his hand slide from Potter's shoulder to cup the back of head and press, pushing Potter's face down while his other hand worked at his cock. Draco had him, arms full of writhing vampire, and it was only moments before Potter's body shuddered in climax.

He didn't give Potter time to finish twitching before he pushed him off, but not away. Potter's lips were slick and red, eyes high and bright with the aftermath of both the feed and the orgasm. The vampire leaned in, perhaps for a kiss, but Draco denied him, reclining his head. He lifted his messy hand and swiped at his neck, pulling it back to consider the glob of fluids. The light in Potter's eyes died as Draco's face set into a steely mask of disdain.

Draco smeared his fingers across Potter's lips, painting them with the mixture of blood and semen. "You owe me, Potter." His voice was a breath above deadly. "I have willingly given you everything, and you stole from me." Potter panted against his fingers, eyes now wide and apprehensive. "You owe me because I can give you your life back, but you can never give me back mine."

Draco stepped back and his hand fell from Potter's startled face, even paler now under the harsh truth of Draco's words. He raised it again, this time to wipe the mess on his shirt, leaving a stain on the rumpled white fabric. His snort of disgust echoed through the living room as he turned on his heel and went upstairs.

It was sometime later that he awoke to the tingle of the wards he'd placed outside his room. Draco lifted his head from the pillow and pointed his wand at the door. The door rippled and melted away, allowing Draco to see the other side. Potter lay curled up on his side, almost in the door frame, his fingers making absent trails against the grain of the floor. After an hour, Potter still hadn't moved, and Draco went back to sleep.

When Draco stepped out of the room the next evening, Potter was gone, but the floor was suspiciously cool.


	17. Chapter 17

Three weeks passed where Draco spent little time with Potter, save the every other night feed where Potter knocked on his door and stared at his feet and scratched at the back of his neck until Draco let him in. And that only lasted a few perfunctory minutes with a handful of gestures and nods between them. Potter ate, got hard, and went on his way. It dawned on Draco that this awkward dance between them was a bed of his own making, but he refused to be the first to budge. As Potter made no move to articulate an apology, Draco made no move to elicit one from him. Silence was easier than arguing.

Potter spent most of his time upstairs, behind the warded door of Walburga's old study. Draco had no idea what was going on in there, as Potter holed himself in for hours on end, only coming out sporadically, looking like fermented hippogriff shit. Not to mention the packages and deliveries that came at all hours, which seemed to vex Potter in no uncertain terms. Draco caught snatches of huffed expletives and broken tirades about the infernal laziness of owls (with a permanent scowl reserved for Potter's own irritable eagle owl, Ajax), the unreliability of something called 'ee-bay', and an especially colorful and creative rant about 'the fucktacular gall of _some_ people'.

As for the door, 'warded' was an understatement. It was sealed to hell and back with every spell under Merlin, naturally raising Draco's curiosity. A pinkie finger to the doorknob got him a nasty Stinging Hex to the arse for his troubles, and now the fucking thing had taken to spitting one at him whenever he got too close. He gave the door and its hair-trigger knob a wide berth when he passed down the hallway. And if Potter noticed him rubbing his arse and hugging the wall like he was plastered to it when he went to piss, he at least had the decency to not mention it.

Much to his surprise, Draco's saving grace over the past few weeks had come in the form of Granger and Weasley, both of whom had infiltrated Grimmauld and at one point or another had dragged him out in daylight, forcing him to grasp at some semblance of normalcy. If he had to label it, it would have looked dubiously like friendship.

Hermione (as she was insistent to the point of madness that Draco used her given name) appeared one morning, bright and smiling as ever, to drag him bodily from the comfort of his bed, threw clothes at his person, and slapped a cup of coffee in his hand. Her circumvention of his protests was admirable, so when she offered her arm, he took it without reservation and found himself Apparated to the manor grounds.

He had stared at her with some incredulity before remembering his manners, offering her his arm in turn to walk up the path. She had slipped into his hold immediately, and if his presence of mind was soothed by her gentle acceptance, he supposed no one else was around to see it.

As he murmured soft words over his mother's crypt, she stood back, far enough to be respectful, but close enough for Draco to draw strength. In that moment, which part of him still bitterly felt should have been Potter's, Draco felt himself fall under her spell. She was an amazing witch, her intelligence tempered by the generosity of her heart. It was no wonder Weasley and Potter were so enamored of her.

The rest of the day was spent under a great shade tree on the grounds, overlooking his mother's favorite section of the gardens. Hermione had packed along a picnic lunch, and they ate sandwiches which could have only come from Molly Weasley's kitchen on a soft blanket followed up with a surprisingly good bottle of Muggle wine. The small talk was easy and effortless, and when they lapsed into a companionable silence, she pulled out a book, and Draco reclined with his arms behind his head. He dreamed nebulous thoughts of laughter and flowers, of green eyes and a lightning bolt scar, and his mother's fleeting smile. It was the best day he could remember having, even before the war.

The Weasel was even worse. Affable and easygoing, he was nothing like the Ronald Weasley he remembered from school. Then again, neither of them were the same people they had been before. This time, Ron made no bones about clattering around Grimmauld, shouting to tear the roof off. Potter had shouted for Weasley to 'fuck off since vampires were trying to sleep', but even he could hear the protest held no heat. Maybe whatever transpired between them had been resolved, or Potter was too worn out from his secretive exploits to effectively posture a threat. Again with the clothes-throwing, but with more man-handling (he hadn't been thrust into a shower that hard since his Quidditch days). Draco should have suspected something along those lines, because he found himself side by side with Ron in the stands cheering for the cringe-worthy Chudley Cannons.

As per usual, the Cannons lost, but put up a valiant effort. When Draco asked him why he hadn't asked Potter to come, Ron had shrugged in that casual way of his and replied, "I've asked. He won't come. I've asked. He snarled. I've stopped asking. It's a thing." Either way, it hadn't seemed to affect Ron, and Potter hadn't seemed put out that Draco went. And if anyone had ever told Draco he would have a good time at the hands of Ron Weasley, he would have hexed them into oblivion and then punched them in the face for good measure (bad pun notwithstanding). Another shining example of a mediocre existence made good by the company of a friend.

He was starting to get to the point of feeling like this was to be his life. Barely civil interaction with a man he was all but married to, time alone with nothing but his thoughts and the company of a fawning house-elf, and sporadic moments of happiness to break up the mind-numbing monotony. He was a second away from leaving his breakfast on the table to brave that damnable door and force Potter into a half-hearted apology just to have something interesting to do, when Potter appeared in front of him.

He was scruffy, from head to toe, more of a general rumpled appearance rather than lack of hygiene. Because if that had been the case, Draco would have refused to speak to him until he was scrubbed clean.

"If you've got a moment, would you come upstairs, please?"

That one sentence contained more words than they'd spoken to each other in the past three weeks, and Draco didn't know if it was the soft-spoken quality to his words, or the 'please', or the silent hope that was banked far back in the depths of Potter's eyes, but he dropped his spoon into his oatmeal and he stood up.

"After you, Potter."

Potter stopped outside the door to the study and looked expectantly at Draco. "Go on. Go inside."

Draco shot a wary glance at the doorknob.

"Your arse is safe, I promise."

Draco's eyes cut from the knob to Potter. "You knew about that?"

Potter rolled his eyes. "Really?" he said with a dry grin.

Draco stiffened. "Oh, yes, His Saviorness and his Boundless Magical Talents. How easily one forgets such things."

"Just open the door, Draco."

Draco opened the door and gone was Walburga's well-appointed old lady study. In its place stood a state of the art potions lab. Potter had resized the room at least three times over and filled it with the stuff of Draco's dreams. Shelves and shelves of glittering vials and potions ingredients took up a large portion of one side of the room, there were not one, but two, stasis chambers, a rack of shiny new cauldrons, and several workbenches scattered through the work area. A tall, heavy-drawered chest in one corner looked to contain tools and implements, and one wall was nothing but bookshelves. Hundreds of tomes lined the wall, breaking only in the middle to frame a large portrait. It was a vignette of a library somewhere, with more books in the background. It looked homey and lush, and a large leather wing-backed chair sat to the forefront with a small side table. A steaming cup of tea sat all alone, its wispy tendrils of vapor rising into the air as if someone had just poured it. The room was heaven. And Draco was speechless.

Potter stood there awkwardly, looking sheepishly at him while scratching at the back of his head, waiting for Draco to say something. And he honestly wanted to, but his brain had short-circuited the minute he stepped into the room.

"Do—do you like it?"

Was it his imagination, or was there a small waver to Potter's voice?

"What—what is—I mean, it's wonderful. But why did you do this? I thought you were redoing the study for you."

Potter's eyes held a world of untold emotion. "Because you were right. You've given me back my life, at least one part of it, anyway. This is me, trying to give you back yours."

Draco's mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

"You said you were thinking about potions. Now you can do that. I'll explain how in a bit, but for now, this is yours. I know nothing can bring back your expectations of how you thought your life would go, but this could be your life. If you wanted it to be."

"Potter, I—"

"And if you don't, that's fine, too." The words rushed from Potter's mouth and he held his hands out in supplication. "Really, it's okay." There was a flash of earnest protest in Potter's eyes as he continued, "If it's not, just tell me what you want and I'll do everything in my power to give it to you, I promise."

Draco swallowed, bringing much needed moisture to his mouth. "This is one hell of an apology."

Potter's hand fell to his side. "And that's the other thing. I had every intention of making this a lab for you when you mentioned it. But after I…I hurt you, I knew I needed to make it as perfect as possible. At first, I was angry. Angry with you because you should have known better than to bleed in my presence." Draco's eyebrow rose, but Potter put up a hand. "I know, I know. And then I was angry at myself for thinking that. You were suspended in a moment that had forgotten you. You were not at fault, I was. All this control I fight to keep every day, and I came undone from the scent of your blood." Potter shook his head and dropped his eyes to the floor. "There is a time and a place to lose that control. Standing over your mother wasn't it." It felt like ages for Potter to lift his head and fix him with those eyes. "I'm sorry, Draco. You don't know how much. I was overwhelmed with what I—the bond makes me feel for you." Potter's eyes were pleading for him to understand. "All I knew is that you were in pain, and I—the bond urged me to comfort you. But you were bleeding, and there's a part of me that reconciles all that. Hurt, blood, and sex all equal comfort to that baser side of me. It was never meant to discount your grief. Only distract you from it." Potter's hands clenched into fists at his side. "I am a man, a wizard, and a vampire. I am a dark creature, with dark magic, and even darker desires. But I don't want to be a monster."

"I—I don't think you're—"

"But I can be," Potter finished. "And I have to trust you with my life. You should be able to trust me with yours."

Draco stiffened. "I didn't think you were going to kill me, Potter."

"No, but the pain I would have caused you if I had finished that would have been just as great. To you. It would have destroyed everything, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Draco whispered. "So, you did all of this, for me?"

Potter's smile emerged. "I did all the heavy lifting, and Hermione and Minerva consulted. And there was one other person that I couldn't have done without." Potter's eyes moved past Draco to the portrait. "You can come out now," he called.

Draco whipped around in time to see a large swath of black robes swish into the frame, and Draco's heart caught in his chest. A familiar profile appeared, a hook-like nose he'd known since childhood, and suddenly he was looking square into the dark eyes of Severus Snape.

"Hello, Draco."

Draco grabbed at Potter's arm to keep from falling over. He chuckled and righted Draco with a pat to the shoulder. "Catch up. I'm going to grab a nap." And then Potter left him, alone in a potions lab, with his dead godfather.

"Well, that was certainly eloquent," Severus drawled. "For Potter."

Draco could only nod. At Severus' arched eyebrow, he found his voice. "Yes, it was."

"A worthy apology, I presume?" There was too much of a knowing tone to his words.

"Did he tell you what happened?"

"I refused to help him otherwise." Severus' chin was set at a haughty angle. "My first concern was your well-being. You've always been like a son to me, and if Potter was mistreating you, I wasn't going to stand for it."

"Still watching out for me?" Draco smirked.

"Always."

"But you're watching out for Potter, too, aren't you?"

Severus' mouth pulled into a tight line. "Less than a minute and you're giving me lip. I think that's a record." Draco opened his mouth to snark back, but Severus continued, "Have you forgiven him?"

"It's not that simple, I can't—"

"The courage of your convictions is admirable, but don't martyr yourself to them. It will only end in pain. Trust me." Severus' fingers rested on the back of the chair, curled into the worn leather. His dark eyes radiated sorrow and heartache. "Listen to me, Draco. There is no shame in forgiveness. Nor is there in weakness. I know Lucius taught to seek every advantage over your enemy and to keep them beholden to you. Don't spend your life fighting to keep the higher ground. Because you may be able to look down your nose, but it won't mean a thing when you tumble over the edge."

"Severus—"

"Go to him. I think the fact that I'm here is sufficient proof of Potter's capability to grovel effectively, don't you think? We'll discuss the terms of this arrangement and why I'm here at a later time. Right now, you have other business to attend."

Draco nodded, turned on his heel and bolted out the door into the empty hallway.

"_POTTER!"_


End file.
